Ford At Valverde

A course of action was needed, but none had been gained. The opposing party was on his side, but the boundaries were the enforcement of his regiment, and their sympathy waned like the muddied arcs of the river basin. Enough had been said along the way that told him no one veered short of Captains orders, and the consensual advice he had been given was that his beloved were better off dead than camped with a band of Apaches. They had already seen their share of losses, and many had been desensitized to the pain over bitter bloodshed. The squaws and children had since been escorted away by another detachment, and his only hope was in the silence that pierced his thoughts like the tormenting wind.

  One of the soldiers had given him a frock coat, and it did help to trap some warmth against his back, although the fabrics scraped like grainy threads across his blistered skin, which were now open wounds. At times he would sweat with a fever, but he tried not to let it show for the insults could be measured by the mile.

  Every man was as strong as the challenge to move forward, and the arrogance of his counterparts would make him have to prove himself worthy to be among them. In his mind he wanted to damn them all to hell for cursing him behind his back, and their occasional snorts in mockery of his becoming Indian roast, as they would have it.

  Most of the men in his outfit were New Mexicans, and along with their behavior came a crude taste for weakness. Even though Juan had become a friend of sorts, he was still short of respect, and considered Daniel to be another notch on his collar from the raid. It was only after two more days of traveling that he had finally seen the likes of them scared shitless, that he had voiced as much out loud, when surrounded by troops on either side, as they watched the Texan army move along a parallel ridge.

  Their faces looked panicked as an occasional artillery shell was fired and the artillerist were unable to place their guns on the sandy terrain that shifted beneath them.

  Daniel had held his stead throughout the battle in a path of blinding sand, as he watched soldiers fall under the fire of his rifle. The emotions that came from the wounded were somehow vented by the blood that rushed about his reflexes, as he reacted instinctively under the pressure. Afterwards, he understood how the duties of soldiering came to be, but the nights were filled with dread from the vexation of endless dreaming and the dying that haunted him when his eyes were closed.

  The days felt like a myriad of mistakes, as though falling into a tunnel headlong and plummeting deeper into darkness. If the morning had presented wings, he surely would have taken them and mounted up to search the foothills for Annabelle and Emmett. It was the one thing that forced him the distance to fight against all reason for a war he had thus far found no honor in, and had made him a prisoner to its cause. For a cold February morning, the morale of the men was that of heightened awareness when they had finally reached Valverde.

  The hills rolled over the dry plains with bushy pines and patches of grass, and the rocky canyon heads jutted above the Rio Grande. However, there was no feeling of satisfaction whatsoever, only that of barren dread when the Colonel, with his short dark hair, hard sullen face and oversized ears, stopped the troops and ordered most of the men back to Fort Craig.

  As the other troops departed under his command, Daniel, along with the remaining infantry, was ordered to form a picket line along the west riverbank. Later that night, some of them were sitting around a campfire drinking whiskey from a bottle that was being passed to him by Juan.

  “Gracias,” he replied flatly and took a long swig, as the others around him carried on in Spanish.

  It was then that one of the Captains, which was also the leader of the New Mexican company of scouts and spies, concocted a bizarre scheme against a herd of cattle that was gathered on the other side of the river. Daniel watched in wonder as he commanded two of his men to strap a pair of howitzer shells to the backs of a pair of elderly mules.

  “This ‘ll keep the Confederates from having steaks-on-the-hoof!” the Captain replied in a drunken laughter, while the others jeered about and slapped at the dark.

  Then he lit the shell fuses and headed the mules across the shallow river towards the Texans’ cattle. But as soon as they did, the mules turned around and began following the Captain and his helpers. As fast as they could run, they headed back to the safety of their own lines as the shells exploded far behind them, making mince-meat of the mules, as the laughter sprayed around him.

  Failing to feel the amusement of such, Daniel merely expressed his cynicism with another swig from the bottle, “trouble sparks on every hand.”

  “Yeah,” replied Juan with a laugh, “But this one had it coming.”

  Daniel shook his head with a doubtful smirk, “It’s all ass backwards if you’re askin’ me, but he might as well pile on the agony while he can. I’m sure we’ll be payin’ for it in the morning.”

  “I know what you mean,” he stuffed some tobacco into a pipe and lit it, “it already smells like death warmed over.”

  Daniel agreed, and felt like he was in mourning, as the smoke spiraled up above the hilltops, and above the drunken bouts of cursing and dancing to the ears of the enemy, in uneven rhythms and patriotic songs.

  monumental stone