Ford At Valverde

by Anita Melillo

The vapor from the water met the frosty air, which formed a brooding cloud above the surface that was ominous as the sound of pounding hooves approaching made the ground tremble.

  He sat without remorse for what the day held, nor did he hold it in account for his actions. He would only take what life was needed to sustain his own, and by way of the sword he would perish if the hour called. It was the only way he could justify the recompense for such, for little was gained by knowing the outcome. Too many things were uncertain, and there were too many gaps to broaden the chain of what he believed. Only there were two words that summed up his existence and they were troubled waters. The body count would be high, he could tell this already by the mounts that possessed their horses like items of tack. There was no way to discern the difference between another days pursuit and the judgment that would come. However he looked at it, it mattered little to be optimistic, for whatever happened was as anything set aside. If it was his day to die, then there was nothing he could to do change it.

  Opposite the river was a Confederate General, having the fortitude to gamble at the bit with his pint of whiskey. His face was angular and there was a wild look in his eyes as he judged the competition, sizing them up as the number continued to grow. Then he started a body of Texans up the east bank of the river, aiming towards the ford at the Valverde side of the river.

  Daniel had prepared himself for the moment only by the content of his rifle barrel and a haversack of supplies. He would use what had been given him with the mortality that he had and work with the humble remains. With the added days of facial hair, he resembled any other soldier that he stood shoulder to shoulder with, and kept his hands fitted firmly on the bayonet. Some of the other soldiers prayed silently to themselves, or breathed warm air into their hands as they awaited the command.

  Then the hushed silence was broken as Colonel Canby gave the fierce imperative, “Onward march!”

  At once, four companies of the Calvary went splashing across the stream, as the group of infantry and artillery followed. Daniel moved with the minion of flashing steel up the west side of the river in an attempt to block the Confederate crossing.

  There was a cottonwood grove on the east bank where an advanced unit of Texans were ready to oppose them when the opportunity lent itself.

  Quickly, the infantry and artillery moved into position. And with an outcry of screams of fury from gutsy voices, they charged at the ensuing Confederates. Daniel shifted with the shells that popped beside him, while men and horses went down in the gunfire. He would swiftly work to readjust his load as the enemy got ever closer. The cries and moans of those around him pierced the air, and some stood dazed before their bodies hit the ground. The explosions rattled his ears so that it became a deafening racket that caused his head and heart to pound, as the corpses became obstacles beneath his feet.

  All of his strength was willed in the direction he turned to fight back the men that were bearing down on him. With each man defeated came another in his place, as he propelled the end of his bayonet into one of then out again.

  They had maneuvered and battled their way across the stream until, while their troops had managed to force the Confederates away from the river. It felt good to see them flee into some nearby sand hills, but then more artillerist were placed into position and commenced firing along the west bank. Daniel breathed deep into his hands and then clenched his teeth to prepare for the onset.

  Without a second to lose, he was engaged in the fight as canister landed around him and blasted some out of position. He wrestled against the blades of pointed steel as the war deepened the rage within him, as he growled with fury and struggled to take out everyone who attempted him with either bayonet or bullet.

  Hours into the battle, a troop of Texas Mounted Volunteers rushed forward as men charged with full fury. Then they were followed by a Confederate light howitzer battery, which seemed a poor attempt at retaking the cottonwood grove, as they exchanged artillery fire and men were blasted off their saddles as metal landed around him. A few minutes later and with a glimpse across the river, he was given a motion to gather around with the other Union reinforcements along the west bank of the river. And they were joined with a company of Colorado Volunteers that seemed to arrive for just that moment.

  There was barely enough time for Daniel to reassemble with his group, as Juan appeared on horseback within the eight companies of New Mexicans that splashed upstream. They felt somewhat encouraged since the numbers of mounted soldiers had decreased significantly as they waded the cold waters. That was until they saw some dismounted Texans in some woods not far from the grove. All ill feeling of anticipation came over him for what was to follow.

  For a brief moment, he had hoped that it was all over. After being so worn down and beaten that it hurt to lift the bayonet again, he used whatever strength he could muster and poised his weary arms for battle. Blood trails down his hands and face, and no man was proud of the predicament at hand. The other soldiers were cursing to no end, until they saw the range of force that was about to charge in their direction and then all became quiet.

  They appeared like something darkly spiritual and ancient upon the sandy ridge, sporting nine-foot-long wooden lances with wide steel blades that refracted in the sunlight. Daniel wondered how any of them would survive it, as it seemed like something medieval from another place and time. Then they began to charge at full gallop.

  Some of the men were suddenly panicked as the fear of such overtook them. Their horses stirred at the sight as they started to turn back when one of the Captains yelled, “They are Texans. Give them hell!”

  In a fierce bayonet charge, Daniel clenched his jaws tight and tried not to feel the pain as the front line was squashed. Both men and horses met the ground, with some of the horsemen being lifted from their saddles by the bayonets, and then flung back down as though their lives were meaningless. An even greater number fell before the lances could reach them, by bullets, hand to hand combat and clubs. And when the wave finally reached Daniel, he dodged a lance, which plugged the ground as he fired and the man stumbled on top of him. He pushed him off with all his strength and tried not to fall from the saddle. And while many were scrambling to whatever safety they could find, he had no choice but to continue to fight.

  As the battle continued behind him, a Confederate General had become ill, and it appeared that he had too much to drink, which seemed a luxury to have the elixir in battle. He was being escorted to the back of a horse-drawn ambulance as he took another swig of whiskey. Daniel only wished he had a taste of as much to dull the pain.

  Meanwhile, another confident and stern-jawed commander, moved into position to take his place, but with the shift of authority it caused some confusion, and most of his men wouldn’t even obey his orders. Daniel thought this might work to their benefit, but he was wrong, as his other regiments crossed the river to join in on the assault. Then a double counterattack was launched upon impact.

  Added to his misery was another two hundred Texans, which had formed together behind some other high ridges, and suddenly emerged as they charged down the slope. Daniel fought with all his might as his arm was slashed and a man grabbed him by the face from behind and tried to pull him from his force. He twisted hard and fast and stabbed him in the gut and his expression made Daniel want to vomit, but he continued on with ending lives among the Federal cavalrymen and New Mexicans, as he fought against the onslaught with as many others getting wounded or killed. It seemed the battle would never end, and only seemed to intensify more late that afternoon when a mass of yelling dismounted Texans came running across the plain toward the Federals. They looked crazed and deranged, but obeying orders just the same, as they fought hard with broken bones and shattered teeth that marred the remains.

  They continued to take heavy losses under the firestorm that met them, but continued to rush forward until they were within Union lines, and began firing their pistols at point-blank ra
nge. Some of the men were clubbing each other with the butts of their rifles, when Daniel took a hard blow to the back, which knocked him down. Then he got back to his feet as another man slashed him across the face with a bowie knife. The blood ran down his chin and neck as he grabbed the mans wrist and wrestled with the knife, until he had gripped it by his side. Then another soldier aimed a pistol in the mans ribs and fired.

  The mass of confusion was overwhelming as two of the New Mexican companies supporting the artillery abandoned their positions, all the while two commanders were killed by simultaneously shooting each other. Then outside the ring of fire, and above the mayhem of the dying and the cries of the wounded, they heard their Colonel yell, “Retreat! Retreat at once! Retreat!”

  It was still a struggle to withdrawal, and the fury was intense, when the troops finally went splashing back across the river, but there were still explosions ripping the air. As shells from those who had been captured were fired, there were still men and horses being killed as their bodies floated slowly downstream. The Texans were full of hostility and ruthless in their pursuit of the retreating men, but Daniel made it across in the ford of the river just in time.

  Then their Federal Commander stopped and wiped his brow on the arm of his jacket. Then he hoisted the defeater’s flag high and waved it back and forth yelling, “Truce! I ask for a truce to recover the Federal dead and wounded! Truce!”

  Even though it meant this battle in particular would be over for them now, Daniel only felt remorse for the watery grave before him. Then the Confederate Colonel, agreed to the requests with a wave of his arm, as he ordered his men back and away from the banks of the river.

  “Halt! Cease Fire! A truce has been made! Halt! Cease fire!” he commanded with continued fueled breath, until they listened.

  Finally, the Confederates stopped firing their weapons, and began to cheer instead, as they tossed their hats into the air and chanted their insults at the Union soldiers.

  “Yankees go home! Yankees go home! Yeller-bellied cowards! Rebels win!” they screamed, all the while laughing with mockery at their loss.

  Daniel was among those who were ordered to wade into the rigid water to retrieve the dead. And among the rising sound of voices ridiculing their defeat, were the moans of those in pain as the water ran red beneath him, as others were swept downstream, caught up in the currents and never to be heard from again. An occasional victory shot was fired as the sounds grew fainter, as he inhaled with difficulty to catch his breath. One of his eardrums had been shattered from a blast and the pounding in his inner ear had increased. Then he reached down for the shoulder of a soldier that was face down in the water. When he turned him over, he saw that his eyes were wide open, staring at him with a blankness as the blood streamed from his mouth. There was no motion or movement, only death in the rigid stream. It was in that same moment that he saw a reflection of himself, every bit as full of life as the soldier had once been just a few minutes before, with his own war wounds and the blood that covered his chin and neck, and though he was still standing, but felt every bit as dead.

  When he went to lift the body, it was with difficulty, as he struggled over the rocks while the current tried to pull them downstream. The back of the New Mexicans head had been bashed with a club, and he had to pull him by his arms to the muddied bank. Then he bent down and hoisted the body over his shoulder, wavering to stand as an occasional rock landed beside him. With a sense of surrealness, he felt that his own soul had too drifted away, somewhere along those monumental stones, like the corpse that weighed heavy upon him.

  festive as a lark