The Dark Land

1

THERE WAS BLOOD on the land, though none could see it. None but Brad Chambers, who rode through it now like a man returning from the dead, like one who had crossed the River Styx and seen the skulls floating in its crimson depths, the shades of slaughtered men in its mists, the twisted expressions on the faces of men slain before their time, without any warning from God or the voiceless pickets lying where they had stood daydreaming before the sniper’s rifle cracked the silence of a Texas dawn, before the lonesome cry of a curlew had floated over the solemn flow of soothing river waters.

He saw the dead and the dying, long after the guns had stopped cracking like whips; the empty-throated cannons stood like iron relics abandoned to the scavengers, and the white smoke had blown away like the ghostly shrouds of faded battleflags, turning to tatters and wisps before it vanished entirely over the corpses of faceless boys and men.

Corpses floated in the Rio Grande; the revelry had begun in Brownsville and across the border in Matamoros even before the last shot had been fired, even before the last man had fallen in a battle that should never have been. Brad rode toward Brownsville with a heavy heart, with an empty ache that could not be assuaged. The Confederacy was in shambles, his beloved Cavalry of the West disbanded and the men scattered on both sides of the border, some unwilling to surrender or even to believe that the Confederacy had lost the war, lost a month before that last fight when Lincoln had accepted Lee’s surrender at the Appomattox Courthouse in Virginia, so far away Brad felt cheated that he was not there to see it happen, to weep with General Lee’s men at the utter indignity of it all.

The dead Union soldiers had been strewn for seven miles, shot down in their flight toward the Rio Grande and not a Confederate soldier lost. He had seen the bodies floating in the Rio Grande—a sight so sickening, so indelible, he could not erase the horrible images from his mind. The faces of the dead floated in his memory as they had floated on the big river and all of it so senseless, so unnecessary, so stupid.

And, now, Sheridan was in Brownsville, perhaps trying to sort it all out. The war was over, and the Confederacy had lost. But, there had been no formal surrender on the Rio Grande. Men, even Colonel Rip Ford, had just disbanded and drifted away. So, why had General Phil Sheridan sent a courier with a message for him to meet him in Brownsville? He was only a major. Ford or Slaughter should have been the ones to be called before the conqueror, but they were elsewhere, probably over the border in Mexico as so many of his outfit were, with dreams of joining up with Maximilian and fighting the Mexicans.

Had Rip and the others not had their fill of war? Did their blood run so hot it could not be cooled down, even after a victory? They had defeated the Federals without losing a single man. That should have been enough to cause them to lay down their arms and accept the honorable surrender that had been so generously offered even before the last battle at Palmito Hill, even before the fighting at Brazos Island, and now, once more by Phil Sheridan.

There it was again, unbidden, as always, since that last strange battle, and again, Brad turned his head quickly to see if he could catch a glimpse of it, that shadow that had been following him, that shade that had no name and no face and no form. And again, there was nothing there but the sallow sunlight and the faint aroma of burnt black powder still lingering in his nostrils, that sickly and elusive scent of blood and the sickeningly sweet smell of decaying flesh.

Was that shadow only his own conscience, left behind to stalk and taunt him like some remnant of battle smoke that no wind could bear away? Or was it the shade of some man he had killed himself, some searing stain on his soul that appeared and disappeared every time he thought of that last slaughtering charge when men tried to swim to the island and sank under the weight of their packs and rifles and pistols or were shot to pieces by stony-eyed Confederates crazed by the blood-lust that gripped men without warning in the heat of battle?

Shadows. They striped the road now, cast by the huisache grass and the stunted, windblown mesquite and live oaks, cast by his horse and his own figure, cast by the falling sun in retreat across the western sky, a bleak sun seeking the sea, deserting the plains. The sky would soon turn blood-red, leaving tattered banners of clouds turning to ash like burnt battle flags tacked to the distant horizon as reminders of what had happened here along the Rio Grande, of what had happened many times before ever since Brad had joined the Texas Rangers and met that bastard, John Salmon Ford in San Antonio, that exasperating, complicated, unpredictable man who had more courage in his little finger than most men had in their hearts and spines.

Old Rest in Peace Ford, his colonel, his father at times, his tormentor at others, a most baffling man whom he would have followed to his death, and damned near did, but would now like to strangle with his bare hands, because the man bore no allegiance to anything or anyone, and might even turn up next as an enemy whom he must battle, not on American soil, but across the border, in Mexico.

Perhaps that shadow following him was Ford. Maybe the colonel was dead, or maybe he was one of those men who never died, but came back again and again to fight every battle under a different name, in a different body.

Brad rode through gathering shadows and looked over his shoulder several more times as if knowing he was being followed by someone, or something. But, he saw only the blood-red horizon and the scarred clouds and did not let his gaze linger on them because they might contain faces or profiles of men he had killed or had seen die, not just at Palmito Hill, but all across Texas and into Mexico, long before the state had seceded from the Union and he had left Sheridan to come back home and defend Texas against men he knew and admired.

Damn them all, Brad said aloud, as the lanterns and torches of Brownsville came into view and the shadows brought on a sense of dread of what Sheridan might want with him, what he might say to a man who once served with him and now was disgraced, another who had lost a war that could not be won, a war that should never have been fought.

But Rip Ford and the Cavalry of the West had won the last battle. What would Phil have to say about that? Would he gloat? He had beaten, somehow, an army that had never been defeated. Texas had not lost its war. Its war had been lost in the east, in Virginia, at Gettysburg, and in Atlanta and Savannah and in Mississippi and all along that bloody road that had begun at Fort Sumter.

Brad steeled himself for the meeting with General Sheridan. Phil might look at him with scorn and want to exact revenge, but he was not going to bow down to Phil, nor show shame for his actions, nor cast aspersions on Rip Ford. He had fought for Texas, for his home, and he had not wavered in that fight.

He vowed he would not waver now.

2

BROWNSVILLE WAS TEEMING with people: Mexicans, civilians, Union soldiers, news reporters, boat captains and sailors, fishermen, women of the night, street vendors, children, and spies. Brad was challenged almost immediately by Union guards carrying rifles with bayonets fixed. The cantinas glistened in the glow of lantern light and the sounds of mingling people, twanging guitars, and raucous laughter spilled into the street. Some of the soldiers were drunk and staggered in and out of doorways as if they had lost all sense of place or direction.

General Sheridan sent for me, Brad said, offering the piece of paper the courier had given him guaranteeing safe passage and entry into Brownsville.

Chambers had finely chiseled features that bore the tanned hue of sun and wind, a square jaw stubbled like his cheeks, long sideburns that were straight as froe-cut slabs of hickory, and a lazy smile that never quite left his curved lips. He stood near six feet tall in his socks and his wide shoulders emphasized his narrow waist and flat, hard stomach. He was lean and all muscle, and moved with a certain animal grace and quickness.

You know where Union headquarters is? the Corporal asked.

Fort Brown, I suppose.

General Sheridan’s post is in town for the time being. You’ll find him at the courthouse on the plaza.

I know where that is, Brad said.

Pass, then, you goddamned rebel.

That’s Major to you, Corporal.

You ain’t got no rank here, the corporal said.

Thank you, Brad said, and rode by the guardhouse and down the main street until he came to the plaza at the center of town. He stopped in front of the building, the old courthouse flying the Union flag and Sheridan’s colors, dismounted, and tied his horse to a hitch ring. Guards blocked his way, but after reading the note from Sheridan, let him pass inside. His boots made the boards creak. A single lantern glowed in front of a door at the end of the hall, where another Union soldier stood at relaxed attention. He stiffened when Brad approached.

Major Chambers to see General Sheridan by appointment.

May I see your papers, sir?

Brad waited as the guard examined the note with the general’s seal embossed on the paper.

One moment, sir.

The guard knocked and a gruff voice told him to enter. The man stuck his head inside the door and whispered a few words. Then, he stepped back outside.

You can go right on in, sir, the guard said. He did not salute and neither did Brad. Instead, the guard swung the door open and Brad filled it as he walked through.

A crusty sergeant sat at a desk in front of another door. He was surrounded by maps on the wall and his desk was stacked with vouchers, papers, an inkwell and quill pen, and wooden boxes holding still more papers. A battle flag stood in one corner and a rifle leaned against the wall behind the sergeant’s desk. He did not get up.

General Sheridan’s expecting you, Chambers. He wants you to go right in. The sergeant flicked a thumb at the closed door. Take off your hat when you get inside.

Thank you, Sergeant.

The sergeant did not reply. Brad smelled whiskey fumes as he passed by the desk and lifted the latch on the door. Sheridan’s office was filled with a pall of blue smoke and the strong aroma of cigars. But there was only one man inside—Phil Sheridan himself, who stood facing a map of Mexico and Texas on the wall behind him. He was framed by two flags like those outside, one Union, one his own regimental flag.

General, Brad said.

I told my men not to disarm you, Brad, Sheridan said, without turning around. Were you treated well when you came into town?

Well enough, General.

Sheridan turned around. His keen look scoured Brad with a quick examination from boots to hat. Brad had not removed his hat when he had come in and Sheridan’s gaze fixed on the CSA badge at the front of the battered crown. The hat was dirty and bloody, and had long since lost its original blocking.

It had been a long time since Brad had seen Sheridan and he did not notice much difference in his appearance, except he seemed more seasoned and those stars on his shirt made him seem taller, more powerful. If anything, Sheridan bore a distant resemblance to Colonel Ford, as if both men had been cut from the same sheet of iron. Certainly both men had a similar hard glint in their eyes, a fiery fervency that fairly shone in the boldness of their flinty glance.

Major, eh, Brad? Sheridan said, looking at the insignia on Chambers’s shoulders. If you’d stayed with me, you’d be at least a colonel by now.

Brad noticed two more doors in Sheridan’s office, one on either side of the room. He could hear the gravelly murmur of voices coming from behind the one on his right. His gaze took in the bureau next to that door, with its flask of brandy and a tray laden with glasses and snifters. There was a porcelain pitcher, as well, white as bone. Sheridan’s sword hung from a peg on the wall, and his hat dangled from a wooden tree in the corner. Next to it, a Spencer carbine leaned against the wall, its barrel and stock gleaming in buffed splendor from the faint glow of the lamplight that sprayed from Sheridan’s desk.

Begging your pardon, General, but my enlistment was up when I left Missouri.

Sit down, Brad, and let’s not be so formal for a moment. It’s good to see you after all these years. But you’re wrong about your enlistment in the Union army. I took the liberty of keeping you on the rolls. In fact, you have back pay coming. You can pick that up at the quartermaster’s.

Sir, I don’t understand.

Sheridan laughed, without any mirth. I know a good man when I see one. I knew the circumstances that brought you under Colonel Ford’s command. I knew that someday that damned war would be over and I didn’t want the Texas Rangers to get you. So, you’re still in the Union army, Brad, and you’ve been promoted.

Brad stepped to a bare wooden chair and sat down. Sheridan walked around to the front of the desk, placed his buttocks on the edge,