The Diezmo, Rick Bass [spiritual books to read .TXT] 📗

had been listening for that one sound all along. He was in his mid-thirties—twice my age—and had seen war, and had become not just accustomed to it, but something more.

I think that Lieutenant Somervell loved war, too—a harsh word, loved, but I think the only one for it—but loved it so much that he could not tolerate what had happened at Laredo and the way his men had behaved, in their sack and plunder. I think he loved war so much that he was truly surprised that it had turned out that way.

It was here, at the feast—the ruined town still cowering as we celebrated in the street—that Somervell announced his intent to turn back, to return home with his men, numbering nearly a hundred, while they still could. And it was here where we learned the unspoken contents of the letter that Green had been reading to us.

Fisher had seen the letter, as had Somervell. Only they knew its entire contents. Somervell, a learned man, knew it well enough to quote it by heart: as if in the days preceding the debacle at Laredo and then the hours following he had been pondering it.

“You will be controlled by only the most civilized warfare, and you will find great advantage of exercising great humanity towards the common people.” He said nothing more, but rose and mounted his mud-caked horse, called his men into formation, and left, riding back north: and I think that I was not the only one who wanted to go with them.

“He cracked,” Fisher said reflectively, after they were gone, seeming completely unconcerned by our diminishment. “I’ve seen it before. You never know who will crack.”

I looked over at Green, my captain, expecting him to disparage Somervell also. But Green said nothing, was only staring down at the coffee mug he held in both hands.

We wandered for nearly three weeks up and down the river, no longer searching for bandits but daily reminded by Fisher and Green of the importance of the great new country claimed from Mexico, by the blood spent at the Alamo and San Jacinto, and how much the Mexicans wanted Texas back.

In each village on our side of the river we found Texans and Mexicans living, all speaking Spanish. The fear in their eyes said that they’d heard of the atrocities at Laredo. They greeted us with great masks of hospitality—Buenos dias, señores caballeros; nos gustan mucho los Americanos. Bienvenidos, estranjeros! Beinvenidos! Good day, gentlemen; we like the Americans very much. Welcome, strangers, welcome!

No longer were banquets prepared in our honor, but the villagers offered dried fruits, vegetables, beef, and other stock, and during the next month we patrolled the border for days at a time, searching for war, until we wore ourselves ragged and hungry and returned to one of the villages we claimed to defend, where we received provisions. Then we pressed back on into the wilderness.

Shepherd’s arm was deteriorating. We had a surgeon along, a Dr. Sinnickson, who treated numerous men with mercury following the soiree at Laredo, fearing the onset of syphilis. He tended to Shepherd’s arm, cleaning it and dousing it with alcohol, saying that the cooler weather of December would serve him well, and that had he received the wound in midsummer, insects would have immediately found it.

The insects found it anyway, and the arm began to swell with an odor now so ripe that all of the men could smell it. We talked about whether it would have to be amputated.

But Shepherd blossomed in his position at the front of the line. Green and Fisher, disparate yet as conjoined as sun and moon, continued to flank either side of the column, and Shepherd shadowed, and was shadowed by, Fisher at almost every turn.

Shepherd didn’t ignore me but didn’t petition me to join him up front. He was growing away from me, yet I kept him in sight, if only to be able to report back to his family.

Occasionally, after taking his dinner with the officers, Shepherd rode over to whichever fire I was seated at, ostensibly to check on me. His horsemanship had improved, as had his self-assurance, and when he sat with me for a few minutes, he filled me in on how his life was changing.

He slept in the officers’ tent with Fisher and his aide, Henry Franklin. Fisher was teaching him military strategy, he said. He was eager for battle, though I saw the old fear in him, rivaling his desire.

I wanted no special recognition from Green or Fisher but envied Shepherd’s ease and power.

“How’s your arm?” I asked.

“It hurts,” he admitted. He knew about the wagering on whether or not the arm would be amputated, yet seemed not to care, seemed almost exultant.

“What do you think about this big river?” I asked. The Rio Grande was almost always in sight. “Do you think we could fish it one night?”

“I want to cross that damn river,” he said. “Captain Fisher does, too.” He spit. “Green doesn’t.”

His arm smelled like rot, and a few minutes later, when Fisher came riding up, looking angry, and Shepherd rose quickly and left, I was glad.

Orlando Phelps, another man at the fire—only a year older than I and small and dark-skinned, with a Mexican mother—watched the two men ride away and laughed. “I see that your friend has become frail.” He said it without cruelty or taunt but in surprised observation. He started to ask me something but let it drop. And for myself, I couldn’t think how to approach the question of James Shepherd. What was the source of his anger? It was carrying him away.

Up and down the river we patrolled, quarreling among ourselves, Ewen Cameron sometimes the instigator and other times the peacemaker, able single-handedly to subdue three or four men. I fell in with a group of boys—John Hill, Jesse Yocum, Orlando Phelps, Billy Reese, Gilbert Brush, and Harvey Sellers, most of whom were fourteen or fifteen. We watched the junior officers