James was taken back by the demonstration, looking around in surprise.
“Carl, what is all this about?” he asked, taking in the group with a sweep of his hand.
“We’re salutin’ you,” Carl answered.
“I can see that. The question is, why?”
“Well, James, we figured that bein’ as you’ll probably be an officer in our regiment, that we may as well get used to it,” Carl said.
“What regiment would that be?”
“The one Bexar County will be formin’ to go off to fight agin the Yankees,” Abner said.
“I see,” James said. He looked at all of them, then he stepped up to the bar. “I’ll have a beer,” he said.
“Ain’t you goin’ to return our salute, James?” Johnny asked.
James turned toward them and rested his elbows on the bar behind him as the barkeep drew his beer.
“No need to,” he said. “I don’t plan to be an officer.”
“Why not? You didn’t fester up none from that wound you got. Hell, you don’t even have a limp. And like as not, your pa will be in command of the regiment when it’s formed.”
“Yeah, and we all agreed he’d want to make his own son an officer.”
“Which is fine by us.”
“There is no Bexar County regiment that I know of. And if there is one formed, I don’t think my pa will agree to command it.”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t believe in this war, that’s why. He doesn’t believe in it, and neither do I. I have no intention of going off to fight the Yankees.”
There was a look of surprise on the faces of everyone who was gathered in the bar.
“Wait a minute. Are you sayin’ you don’t want to go to war?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. I never thought I’d live to see the day a Cason would show the white feather,” Abner said.
Abner regretted his words the moment he said them, and they hung over the crowded saloon like the long-lingering peal of a bell that is too loudly rung. Everyone grew quiet as they waited to see what James would do.
“You got no right to say that, Abner,” Carl said, defending James. “I’ve never known a braver man than James Cason. And I ought to know, seein’ as how I’ve seen him in action and you ain’t.”
James fixed Abner with a cold stare and Abner began to sweat.
Abner ran the back of his hand across his lips. “ ’Course,” he went on, nervously. “I’m not sayin’ that’s what I’m seein’ now,” he said. “The white feather, I mean.”
“What, exactly, are you saying?” James asked, as he took a swallow of his beer.
“I’m just sayin’ that—well, I ain’t never known you, nor no Cason to run from a fight. And I was just wonderin’ why it is that you don’t want to join the regiment?”
“If it was the Mexicans, or the British, or the French looking to invade our country, I would fight,” James answered. “Whether I was made an officer or not, I would fight. But the Yankees? They are our own people—our own kin. My ma and pa both have folks up north—brothers and sisters. I see no reason strong enough to make me take up arms against my own kin.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Johnny suggested.
“The principle?”
“Yes. There is such a thing as principle, you know. I mean, that’s what makes us men, the fact that we will stand up for principle.”
“Johnny’s right,” several others responded. “It’s the principle of the thing.”
“Tell me, then, just what principle would we be fighting for?”
“You want to know what we are fightin’ for? All right, how about the fact that the Yankees won’t let us have our rights?” Abner asked. “That’s what we’re fightin’ for.”
“Yeah,” the others said. “We’re fightin’ for our rights.”
“Our rights to do what? To own slaves? Let me ask you something, Abner. Just how many slaves do you own?”
“Why, I don’t have any slaves, James, you know that,” Abner replied.
“And I know Carl doesn’t. What about you, Johnny? Tom? Mitch? Any of you? Do any of you own any slaves?”
“Don’t none of us own any slaves, James,” Johnny said. “Hell, you know that.”
“Yes, I do know it. And neither do I, nor any of my friends, own slaves,” James continued. “So here’s my question. Why would you be willing to fight in a war where you could get yourself killed, and will for sure be expected to kill others, over a principle that doesn’t even affect you?”
“I’ll tell you a principle that does affect me,” Abner said. “It’s seeing all my friends go off to fight in a war, and perhaps die, while I stay here, safe at home.”
James took another swallow of his beer, then nodded. “All right, Abner,” he finally said. “That is a principle I can understand. If you want to go off and fight in a war because you are guided by your conscience to share the danger with your friends, and not in some youthful quest for glory, I can respect that. But I ask that you show the same respect and understanding for my position. I have no wish to kill my kin. Nor do I want to be killed by them.”
“Then, what will you do? Are you just going to stay here in San Antonio and watch the rest of us march off?”
“I don’t know the answer to that question,” James replied. “It is my hope that I never have to find out.”
Wilson Creek, Missouri Friday evening, August 9, 1861:
Outside, the rain drummed against the canvas sides of the tent where General Lyons was making his headquarters. Despite the trench that had been dug around the tent to divert the pooling water, little streams ran across the dirt floor. Duke Faglier, who was acting as a civilian scout for the Union army, was just returning from a patrol behind Confederate lines. Taking his hat off, he poured water from the crown and bent-up brim, before stepping through the opening in the side of the tent to report to the general.
General Lyons, his red hair glowing in the lanternlight, began examining the map as Duke rendered his report.
“And you say they are just north of the Cow-skins, Springfield Road?” Lyons asked.
“Yes, sir,” Duke replied.
“But it is a feint, correct?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. They are there in strength.”
“What is their strength?”
“It could be as high as twenty thousand,” Duke answered.
“Damn that Sterling Price,” General Lyons said. “How could he raise such an army so quickly?”
“Well, he is the governor of Missouri, General,” his aide explained.
“Former governor,” General Lyons replied. Then to Duke, Lyons asked, “Have you eaten?”
“No, sir.”
“Lieutenant, have we anything for this man to eat?” Lyons asked his aide.
“I think so, sir,” the lieutenant said. Then he continued, “I admit that Price is a former governor, but he is as popular with the people now as he was when he held office. And, outside the city of St. Louis, Missouri is strongly pro-South.”
“That is true,” General Lyons admitted.
“Here you go, mister,” the aide said, then, handing a cloth-wrapped parcel to Duke. When Duke looked up, questioningly, the aide continued. “It’s a cold biscuit with a piece of salt pork. Not much, I’m afraid, but it’s all we have here.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant, this will do just fine,” Duke said, unwrapping the biscuit to take a bite.
“Mr. Faglier, you are a Missourian, are you not?” General Lyons inquired.
“I am.”
“How is it you are with us, and not with the Rebels?”
“I will admit that it was a hard decision,” Duke replied. “I don’t want to see the Union dissolved. On the other hand, I’m not happy about fighting against other Missourians. I reckon that’s why I decided to serve as a civilian scout, rather than join the army.”