GLORIETA PASS

Excerpt from GLORIETA PASS by P.G. Nagle.
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Valverde

     "They're withdrawing," Canby said, and handed the field glasses to Chapin. McIntyre, though his eyes were a bit bleary, didn't need the glasses to see that Canby was right. The Texans that had advanced toward the river were now falling back. A rider kicked up dust amid the scrub as he galloped toward the small group of mounted officers. Canby waited, wearing his favorite grey woolen shirt, an unlit cigar dangling from his lip, the cold breeze ruffling his hair. He sat his old horse Charley, the mount he'd ridden in Mexico, with the ease of a gentleman of leisure preparing to ride out for a picnic. McIntyre, stiff from the previous night's adventure, waggled his shoulders in a futile effort to make them comfortable. The rider--Nicodemus, he now saw--slowed to a trot and picked his way through the empty tents of the volunteers to where Canby and his staff waited.
     "Colonel Pino's respects, sir," Nicodemus said, tossing off a salute. "He believes the enemy is retiring."
     Canby took the cigar from his mouth. "Thank you, Captain Nicodemus," he said. "When you've caught your breath please return and tell the colonel to bring his men back to this side of the river and await orders."
     "Yes, sir," Nicodemus said, accepting the canteen offered by McIntyre. He took a strong pull at it, coughed once, and looked back toward the river. The Texans were turning north. They would pass behind the mesa and join their comrades at the ford, where Colonel Roberts waited with the bulk of Canby's troops.
     "Mr. McIntyre," Canby said, putting the cigar in his pocket.
     "Sir?"
     "My compliments to Colonel Roberts, and inform him that I'll be taking command in the field shortly."
     "Yes, sir."
     "Would you also tell Captain McRae to expect the third section of his battery? Thank you."
     McIntyre saluted and guided his horse down the slope, cutting cross-country to the wagon-road. Once on it he spurred from a bone-jarring trot to a gallop, and was soon approaching the bend in the river that marked the north ford. The sky was heavy with silent, grey overcast that promised snow. Cold air burned his face and lungs. McIntyre found Colonel Roberts on the west bank, gazing intently toward the grey, leafless cottonwoods of the bosque that lined the river. Above the ford McRae had four guns, silent at the moment, trained across the water. Sporadic small arms fire echoed against the mesa to the south.
     Roberts received Canby's message in silence. "Very well," he said. "Would you do me the favor, Lieutenant, of crossing the river and asking Captain Selden to prepare to advance?"
     "Sir," McIntyre said, saluting crisply and turning toward the ford. His mount splashed through the cold, muddy water and up the eastern bank into the bosque where the regular infantry were in line among the trees. "Where's Captain Selden?" he called to the men.
     "Up with the Pike's Peakers," a soldier said, waving north.
     McIntyre picked up a trot. It had begun to snow by the time he reached the left end of the Federal line. Dodd's company were in front of the grove of barren trees, facing low sand hills across a stretch of flat. Behind the hills Texans were making their presence known with occasional rifle shots. Captain Selden and Anderson stood with Captain Dodd and Lieutenant Hall, who broke into a grin as McIntyre dismounted.
     "Come to help avenge the mules?" Hall asked.
     McIntyre managed a laugh, and raised an aching arm in salute. Selden turned, as did Anderson. McIntyre nodded, glad to discover his friend well and whole. They traded silent smiles.
     "Captain Selden," McIntyre said, "Colonel Roberts asks that you prepare to advance."
     "Good." Selden turned to his bugler. "Sound the recall. Allen, take the word to Wingate--" Selden and Anderson strode off down the line with Dodd following.
     "Could you spare some water?" McIntyre asked Hall.
     "Fire water or river water?"
     "Either."
     Hall handed him a canteen. "Here's the whiskey. Otherwise you can wring out my trousers, and be thankful you're mounted."
     A shout made McIntyre look up. Three columns of horsemen were pouring from the sand hills to the south, driving straight toward Dodd's company, the blades of their lances glinting. McIntyre glimpsed Dodd charging back to his men shouting "Form square! Form square!"
     Hall took up the cry. "Form square," he yelled, drawing his pistol. "Fix bayonets!"
     "Christ!" McIntyre said, flinging away the canteen and reaching for his saddlebow. With a grunt he forced stiff muscles to heave him into the saddle. The Pike's Peakers were hastily converging into an infantry square, bayonets bristling toward the oncoming charge. Hall and Dodd stood in the center shouting orders. The lancers raised a blood-curdling yell and McIntyre spurred his horse, while the infantry on Dodd's right loosed a volley into the horsemen crossing their front.
     "They are Texans," he heard Dodd shout behind him. "Give them hell!"
     McIntyre left the square at a gallop, flying past the ranks of men just before they closed, and made for the river. Deeper here; he hissed as cold water poured into his boots. Drawing his pistol to keep it above the water, he slid out of the saddle while the horse swam, floating alongside until they got to firmer footing near the west shore. He got back in the saddle and they scrambled up the opposite bank, where McIntyre found himself in the midst of McRae's battery, the men all staring across the river. Turning his horse, he was just able to make out the fight through the bare branches of the bosque. The lancers were evaporating, shattered by rifle fire. Dodd's men stood firm against the remnants of the attack. It was terrible and glorious, and McIntyre couldn't look away. Rifles rattled. Bayonets flashed, some lifting doomed lancers from their saddles. The squeals of wounded horses tore the air and made McIntyre's mount sidle nervously.
     "By God," McRae said at his knee. "Those Pike's Peakers are sound! Refreshing, after yesterday."
     His voice recalled McIntyre to his duty. "Captain McRae," he said, and cleared his throat to get rid of the quaver in his voice. "Colonel Canby is sending your third section up to you."
     "Looks like we'll need it," McRae said. "Lacey," he added as McIntyre started to turn his horse, "are you all right?"
     No. "Yes. Must go," McIntyre said. There was an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with being knocked silly the night before, and everything to do with the gallant cavalrymen who were spilling their blood across the Río Grande. With feelings as muddy as that river's waters, he turned away from the battle to find his commander.

     "Start another one," Martin said.
     Jamie and Martin stood back while the quartermaster's hands finished shoving a bottomless half-barrel into the hole they'd dug, then moved a few feet away to dig a second pit in the dry stream bed. Men reached eagerly into the barrel, which had welled up with silty water, to cup the precious liquid to parched lips.
     The 1st Regiment had fought stubbornly all morning but had been slowly pressed back and had finally gone into an old river bed, an excellent natural line of defense. A lull had fallen in the battle. Men lay exhausted under the shelter of the bank, chewing dried beef and hard tack. Now and then a cannon boomed to remind them the enemy was still at hand, and the number of fallen mules and horses east of the stream bed attested to the deadliness and superior range of the Federal sharpshooters. The animals, tied to trees and bushes, had been unable to escape when the Federals opened on them, and only recently had the fire diminished enough for the men of the 1st to set the remaining mounts free. Jamie looked away from the sad corpses, thankful that Cocoa was safe with the wagon train.
     "Bring those canteens over, Rose," he said. He had brought a ladle from an empty water cask and started dipping it into the seeping hole and filling the canteens. "Take over," he told Rose, and he and Martin began handing out the filled canteens. Word had traveled fast; men gathered from all along the line for the first water they'd had in over a day.
     "One to a company," Martin said. "Bring back empties."
     Jamie gave away his last canteen, then found a full one thrust into his hands. He looked up at Martin. "Forgot," he said with a grin, and sipped, then drank deeply. The water was bad, but it tasted sweeter than anything he'd ever drunk before.
     "Hey, Russell!" Lieutenant Reily called, trudging toward him. "Heard you found water. Can I have some for my men?"
     "Have some for yourself first," Jamie said, handing him the canteen. "Enjoying the fight?"
     Reily guzzled, then paused to breathe and dragged a sleeve across his mouth.   "Lost a gun," he said in disgust. "Carriage splintered, had to leave it on the field. And we're out of action for now. My little howitzers don't have enough range."
     "You'll come around."
     "How about you?" Reily asked. "Seen any fighting?"
     Jamie shook his head. "We just finished getting the wagons in." He watched Reily pull greedily at the canteen again. "What's it like?" he asked.
     Reily laughed. "Search me," he said. "All I could see was a lot of damned smoke. My boys are doing good work, though. Only lost a couple so far."
     The thud of hooves announced Captain Owens, who reined in, spattering them with sand. "Where's Colonel Scurry?" he asked, reaching for the canteen. "Anything left in that?"
     Reily handed it to him. "I saw him with Major Lockridge earlier," he said. "Up that way." He gestured up the line.
     "What's the news?" Jamie asked.
     Owens had drained the canteen and grimaced as he tossed it back. "The General's ill again," he said scornfully. "He's gone back to his ambulance and left Green in charge."
     Jamie and Reily exchanged a glance. "Heaven help the righteous," Reily said. "I wish my father were here."
     "So do I," Owens said. "Canby's pressing our left. We'll be in trouble before long." He picked up his reins.
     "Wait a minute," Jamie said, and ran to the water hole, returning with two full canteens. He gave one to Reily and handed the other up to Owens. "For the colonel."
     Owens slung it over his shoulder. "He'll be grateful," he said with a nod, and was off again.
     A cannon discharged nearby, then another, followed by a shower of spent minie balls that made Jamie flinch. Reily grinned. "Heating up for a duel, sounds like," he said. "Let's have a look!"
     Reily crept up the dry bank to peer westward. Jamie followed him and cautiously raised his head. Captain Teel, whose battery had been part of Baylor's command before Sibley's advent, had two long field guns aimed at the Federal line. The crews had taken a beating. Jamie could see Teel himself helping to serve the pieces. Cannon fire was now almost continuous, from both in front and further down on the left of the line.
     "The Yankees must have brought their guns across," Reily said. "Getting hot up there."
     As he spoke a shell exploded beneath one of Teel's guns and Jamie heard the yelping voices of the cannoneers as the grass nearby caught fire. Two of them hurried to drag the limber out of danger while others beat at the flames with their jackets.
     "I'd better get back to my battery," Reily said. "Thanks for the water," he added, and with a wave he jumped down from the bank and jogged off to the south. Jamie sighed and slid back to the stream bed, returning to oversee the distribution of water from the second well while the hands started on a third. Minie balls now began to sing overhead. One struck a private in the arm and he screamed as his friends dragged him to shelter under the bank. Jamie swallowed and kept working. All his enthusiasm had drained away again. He kept thinking of Emma's peach cobbler for some reason, and it made him homesick. He could see himself writing his next letter home: "There was a battle. I filled canteens."
     A commotion made him look up to see Colonel Green trotting along the line. "Boys," he said, "we must charge that battery. I'm looking for volunteers." Men jumped up to offer their services. "Form here and wait for Major Lockridge's order," the Colonel told them, and rode on down the line.
     "Line up here, boys," Captain Shropshire yelled, holding up his sword. He grinned, blue eyes flashing at Jamie. "Coming?"
     Jamie felt a tingle in his hands. If he was to get into the fight, this was his chance. He stood, looking for Martin. The captain caught his eye, came toward him, then nodded.
     "Sergeant Rose," Martin called over his shoulder, "You're in charge of the train." He clapped a hand on Jamie's back and smiled. "Time to show what a quartermaster can do," he said.

     McIntyre let his horse jog along after Canby's as the staff rode down the river's west bank. They'd spent the last hour repositioning troops in preparation for an advance. Canby planned to pivot his forces and enfilade the Confederate line, a maneuver that would have been sure of success had his men all been seasoned soldiers. They were not, however. Fewer than half his force were regulars, and of the volunteers, only Dodd's company and Carson's regiment had proved themselves reliable.
     It was getting late; another hour of daylight, two at most. Even Nico was silent, too tired to do anything but follow orders. McIntyre was numb from a long day of hard riding. He wondered where Anderson was, hadn't seen him since the lancer charge. He wished the whole business was over.
     Rifle fire continued, hotter in some places than others, joined by the deep boom of cannon at either end of the line. Canby aimed his field glasses south where the Federal right ran against the mesa. "I believe," he said slowly, "they are forming to charge Hall's battery. Chapin--where's Chapin?"
     "With Colonel Carson, sir," Nicodemus said.
     "Then you, Nico," Canby said. "Go to Ingraham and tell him to support Hall's battery. Colonel Chaves, would you ask Colonel Pino to cross your reserves to the east bank and stand ready to support Selden?"
     Chaves nodded grimly. "They have crossed the river twice already, sir," he said.
     "I'm sorry," Canby said with gentle firmness. "They're not the only ones who are wet, if that's any comfort."
     Chaves gave a silent salute and turned his horse south.
     "McIntyre?" Canby said.
     "Sir?" McIntyre roused himself.
     "Go to McRae and Dodd, tell them to hold firm. They're the anchor for our pivot. D'Amours, go and find Wingate--"
     McIntyre urged his tired mount to a trot and rode away from the staff, northward, back to the ford. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd crossed the river with messages to and from the commanders in the field. A minie ball flew past with the peculiar whiz which in the morning would have made him cringe, but he hardly noticed it now, he'd heard so many. If a ball was meant to get him it would, and there was nothing he could do about it.
     The bosque was thick with smoke and McIntyre's eyes began to sting as he entered it. McRae stood watching his men feed the hot mouths of his six cannon with clockwork economy of movement. McIntyre left his mount tied to a tree near the artillery horses, having learned earlier in the day that if he tried to ride up to the roaring guns the beast would do its best to throw him. He came up on the battery from the right. The ground was bad, too rough, with brush and fallen trees that would make it difficult to maneuver. Voices of tactics instructors echoed warnings in his mind.
     "Alec," he shouted above the din of the guns, "Canby wants you to hold firm. He's going to pivot the line."
     McRae threw a glance at the sand hills. "We'll hold," he said. "But we may need more support."
     McIntyre nodded. "The reserves are crossing now." He peered into Dodd's company, now just behind and to the left of the battery. "I need to find Captain Dodd."
     McRae nodded and returned his attention to the guns. McIntyre started toward the infantry and a shower of musket balls made him duck behind a tree. The Texans were firing cannister. That meant they were close. McIntyre tried not to think about it as he slunk through the trees toward Dodd's company. He found the captain sitting on the trunk of a cottonwood that had been felled by a cannon ball earlier in the day. Compared to the havoc around McRae's battery, the Pike's Peakers were on holiday, crouched behind trees just inside the bosque, with only an occasional ball hissing by.
     "Hello, Lieutenant," Dodd said as McIntyre approached. "What's the news?"
     "Colonel Canby wants you to hold firm," McIntyre said. "He plans to pivot the line on your anchor."
     "Well, this is a nice spot, eh, Hall?" Dodd said as Hall joined them. "Don't see any reason to leave it, even if the neighbors are a little noisy."
     "There are some Texans collecting behind that bank," Hall said. "I was just out for a walk, and one of them tried to redesign my hat." He showed them his hat, the brim of which had a ragged edge where a ball had grazed it.
     "How many Texans?" McIntyre asked, frowning.
     "Can't say," Hall said with a shrug. "More than before."
     McIntyre stared toward the sand hills, disliking the silence. "Where were you when you saw them?" he asked Hall.
     "I'll show you if you like. How much did you pay for your hat?"
     They walked north through the bosque past companies of the 7th, 10th, and 5th that formed the Federal left, then crept east, sheltered by scrub. Hall took to his knees and McIntyre followed suit, the back of his neck prickling as it had on the mule expedition. They elbowed their way up a soft, sandy rise and found themselves overlooking an old channel of the Río Grande which curved away to their right. A couple of hundred yards down, beneath the overhang of the west bank, Texans stood clustered with arms in hand while an officer paced their length.
     "There's more now," Hall whispered.
     McIntyre glanced around nervously, looking for pickets, but saw only the milling troops. He guessed there were two hundred in sight, and probably more beyond the curve. "They'll charge," he said softly. "I have to tell the colonel." They backed down the slope and hurried to the Federal line.
     "Put on your party clothes, boys," Hall called as they jogged into the bosque. "Company's coming!" He grinned, and waved farewell to McIntyre, who continued on.
     The cannon fire had fallen off somewhat, and as he came toward McRae's battery McIntyre realized with a sinking heart that it was because the Confederate guns had gone silent. He sought McRae, whom he found inspecting a damaged limber. The captain looked up as he approached.
     "You're about to be charged," McIntyre said, and quickly gave him the few details he had.
     "Where are the reserves?" McRae asked, glancing back at Dodd's company.
     "I don't know," McIntyre said, searching the bosque to the west. "They should have crossed by now. I'll go--"
     A banshee howl filled the air, the yell with which the Confederates had begun all of their charges that day.
     "Double cannister!" McRae shouted to his men, who were instantly in a flurry of motion. Minie balls began to fly close, some sinking with sharp thuds into tree trunks.
     McIntyre ran crouching through the trees to his horse, and rode away from the chaos toward the river. The horse stumbled and grunted, slowing momentarily until McIntyre's spur urged it onward and over the riverbank. He held reins and pistol in one hand, about to kick out of his stirrups for the swim across, when the animal suddenly faltered and went down.
     Icy water closed over his head. McIntyre nearly panicked as he struggled to free his boots from the stirrups. His foot touched the river bottom and he pushed against it to get clear of the horse, and found he was able to stand, the water just up to his chest. He gasped and coughed, spitting river water. A thin red swirl in the muddy current explained his mount's fall; the animal must have been hit. If not already dead it would swiftly drown, and McIntyre abandoned it for lost.
     The current was fast and threatened to carry him off his feet. He looked at the western shore. If he crossed over he'd be out of the nightmare for good, probably, and could walk along the road until a mounted officer found him. Then he glanced toward the east bank, the nearer of the two. He could hear the report of the cannon, and picture McRae standing his ground stubbornly. He might still be able to help if McRae would lend him a horse.
     "Hell," he whispered, and struck out swimming for the east bank, hoping he would not be too late.

     It was thunder and hell. Jamie's hands shook as he clutched the shotgun he'd borrowed from one of the teamsters. Out ahead the first line was getting shot to pieces by the Federal cannon and supporting troops. Some of them had gone into a stand of trees a little to the left, and Jamie caught himself wishing for a skinny cottonwood to hide behind.
     Captain Shropshire, waving his sword over his head, strode on, and the second line followed. Jamie forced his feet to move and stared at the bosque ahead, where dark forms moved in the smoke like ghosts or demons. He glimpsed a laniard flipping away from its gun.
     "Down!" Shropshire screamed, and Jamie dropped with the rest of the line, covering his head as the hail of balls shrieked overhead. He looked at Martin beside him, who grinned.
     Major Lockridge came up, a bull of a man, shouting "Charge!" The line rose, and a wordless howl burst from them as they ran toward the Yankees. Men from the first line came out from behind their trees and followed.     A wave of bullets hissed toward them and the shouting of the Federal cannoneers promised another deadly hail of shot. Jamie's throat and nostrils burned with the smell of powder. Someone let out a yelp of triumph, and Jamie saw that part of the Yankee line had fallen back behind the battery. Many blue coats lay on the ground around the guns.
     "Charge!" Lockridge's sword flashed in the smoky light and Jamie added his voice to the yell as they started forward, though he could hardly hear himself. He heard the whine of a minie ball and thought for sure he'd be hit, but it was Martin who suddenly stumbled to his knees.
     "Sir!" Jamie reached toward him, glimpsing blood on the captain's shoulder.
     "Don't stop!" Martin shouted, waving him on.
     Jamie forced himself to face the guns again. Duty, do your duty, show you're a man. He hurried to catch up with the line and it seemed now he was marching straight into hell. The best thing, he decided, was not to think about it, not to think at all. With that decision came the release of anger, fear, and frustration all jumbled up together and he yelled as he hadn't yelled before, shrieking like a wounded animal, searching the Yankee line for a likely target.

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