“We can’t always have what we want,” Lyons replied. “But I would be interested in your opinion of General Price’s army. Are they to be reckoned with?”
“Yes, sir, I would say so,” Duke answered.
“Why? By your own accounts, there is scarcely a modern weapon among the whole lot of them,” General Lyons said.
“Well, sir, General Price’s army may not be well armed. I mean, they are sitting out there right now with nothing but flintlocks, shotguns, squirrel guns, and some of them with nothing more than Arkansas toothpicks. But they are dangerous.”
“Arkansas toothpicks?”
Duke smiled. “It’s what we Missourians call knives,” he explained.
Lyons snorted. “Knives, on a battlefield. What kind of ragtag army are we facing? Do they actually intend to face us armed with nothing but knives?”
“I wouldn’t dismiss those knives out of hand if I were you, General. If the fighting gets to be hand-to-hand, and it probably will, a good man with an Arkansas toothpick is far superior to a soldier trying to use a bayonet.”
“Yeah,” Lyons agreed. “Yeah, you might be right at that.” Lyons walked over to the opening of the tent and stood there, looking out at the rain. “It’s still raining.”
“Yes, sir,” Duke said.
“Somewhere in God’s heaven there is an angel with the sole duty of making war miserable, and rain on the battlefield is one of the ways he does it. I suppose that’s good, though. If war were all flags and bands and glory, why I reckon man would be at it all the time.”
“You think this war is going to last long, General?” Duke asked.
Lyons was silent for a long moment, then he turned toward Duke. The general’s eyes were deep and unfathomable.
“Not for me it won’t,” he said, enigmatically.
Because of the rain, very few people found a dry enough place to sleep that night. Those who did were kept awake by concerns of the upcoming battle.
If Duke had been frightened before the battle, all fear fell away the moment he heard the whine of bullets. He felt only an uncontrollable urge to get into the thick of the fight. There were dead and dying all around him, but they received only a passing thought. As a civilian scout, he was technically a nonbelligerent observer, and he became cool and deliberate, watching the effect of bullets, the showers of bursting shells, and the passage of cannonballs as they cut their murderous channels through the ranks of General Lyons’s army.
It quickly became evident that the Rebels were going to carry the day. In a fulfillment of his prophecy of the night before, the war ended for General Lyons when he was killed while leading a charge. During the course of the battle, several other high-ranking officers were killed as well. The sudden loss of their command structure caused all discipline to break down on the battlefield. The Union lines faltered, then began to disintegrate. A gradual withdrawal turned into a full-scale rout as the Rebels swept the Federals from the field.
Duke had no choice but to abandon the field with the others. As he withdrew, a Rebel popped in front of him. Reacting quickly, Duke shot him.
“Duke!” the Rebel soldier yelled in a pained voice as he went down.
Startled to hear the soldier call him by name, Duke ran to the wounded Reb.
“Oh my God! Caleb!” Duke gasped, for the man he had just shot was his younger brother. “I’m sorry!” Duke said. “Forgive me, Caleb! Please, forgive me!”
“It’s all right, big brother,” Caleb gasped. “You didn’t know.”
“What, what are you doing here, anyway?” Duke asked. “When did you join the Rebels?”
“I couldn’t let this great adventure pass me by,” Caleb said. He coughed, and flecks of blood foamed around his mouth.
“I’m going to get help for you,” Duke said. He started to stand but Caleb reached up for him and pulled him back down.
“No,” he said. “No, it’s too late. I’ll be dead before you get back.”
“Caleb, my God, oh my God!” Duke lamented. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right, Duke,” Caleb said. “This is what war is.”
“Not for me it isn’t,” Duke insisted. “I had no right to shoot you! I’m not even a soldier!”
Duke looked at his pistol, then with a pained yell, he threw it away, tossing it as far from him as he could. “I don’t want any part of this war.”
Caleb’s breathing was now coming in audible gasps, but he smiled when he heard Duke say that. “Good,” he said. “You’ve got no business in this war, anyway. You are the last one of us now, Duke. Mom, Pop, our sister. Now me. All dead. You are the last one. You have to stay alive for the rest of us.”
Duke nodded but said nothing.
“Duke, Duke,” Caleb said, reaching up to clutch him by the arm. “The Butrums. Don’t let them find you. I ran across them up in Kansas City. They are a mean bunch. They aim to kill you.”
“A lot of people tried to kill me today,” Duke said.
“Yes,” Caleb replied. “But with the Butrums, it’s personal.”
Again, Caleb began coughing and gasping. Then, his breathing stopped.
“Caleb? Caleb?” Duke called, but there was no answer.
“Duke, did you mean what you said about quitting the war?” a voice asked.
Startled, Duke looked around to see an old boyhood friend, also in a Rebel uniform.
“Jason, how long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to watch Caleb die,” Jason answered. “I’m sorry.”
“I did it,” Duke said. “I killed my own brother.”
“Like he said, this is war,” Jason replied. “Did you mean it? What you said about getting out of the war?”
“Yes,” Duke said. “I mean it. I can’t fight for the South, but I can’t kill any more of my own.”
Jason pointed to the southwest. “Go that way,” he said. “There are no soldiers in that direction, either our side or yours.”
“Thanks, Jason,” Duke replied. Standing, Duke took one last look down at Caleb, then he started in the direction Jason had pointed.
“And, Duke . . . ?” Jason called to him.
Duke stopped and looked back.
“Mind what your brother Caleb said about them Butrum boys. They’re a mean lot.”
Duke nodded, then went on.
Chapter Four
San Antonio de Bexar, Texas
Wednesday, October 30, 1861:
It was just after dark when Duke Faglier rode into San Antonio. From the small adobe houses on the outskirts of town, dim lights flickered through shuttered windows. The kitchens of the houses emitted enticing smells of suppers being cooked, from familiar aromas of fried chicken, to the more exotic and spicy bouquets he couldn’t identify.
A dog barked, a ribbony yap that was silenced by a kick or a thrown rock.
A baby cried, a sudden gargle that cracked the air like a bullwhip.
A housewife raised her voice in one of the houses, launching into some private tirade about something, sharing her anger with all that were within earshot.
The downtown part of San Antonio was a contrast of dark and light. Commercial buildings such as stores and offices were closed and dark, but the saloons and cantinas were brightly lit and they splashed pools of light out onto the sidewalk and into the street. As Duke rode down the road he would pass in and out of those pools of light so that to anyone watching him he would be seen, then unseen, then seen again. The footfalls of his horse made a hollow clumping sound, echoing back from the false-fronted buildings as he passed them by.