Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [34]
The horses came closer, outside the picket fence, and he saw them now, saw the riders, could not tell much, just gray shadows, no voices. He watched the men dismount, tried to count . . . five, six. One man walked to the gate, pushed it open, and they began to move toward the building, to the wide doors, quiet slow steps, and Hancock stood straight, took one step back from the crack, raised the pistol, could see one man’s form moving up closer, blocking out the moonlight, and he held the pistol with both hands, felt a rising heat, his heart sending a roar of sound through his head.
He set the barrel of the pistol in the crack of the door, aimed at the man’s chest, and the man stopped and said in a loud whisper, “Captain Hancock? Captain, you in there?”
It was Phineas Banning.
Hancock pulled the pistol back, stood for a moment in the dark, fought the urge to laugh, then slid a steel bar through heavy metal rings on the door and pushed it open.
“Captain? We heard you were in here. I called on your house earlier, saw your wife. She damn near shot me. Guess it was late . . . sorry . . . but she said you were here, standing guard.”
“What are you doing here? Who is with you?”
Hancock tried to see faces, now others began to speak, familiar voices, men he knew well from the town. Banning quieted them, said, “Captain, we have been hearing things, talk of trouble, and we’re here to help.”
Another man spoke, Joseph Brent, a lawyer, a man who dealt with the Spanish people.
“Captain, you are in some danger here. There is organizing going on, men gathering west of town, talking about a raid on this warehouse. We got together to see what we can do to help.”
“Gentlemen, this is dangerous business. I can’t . . . I’m not authorized to issue guns to civilians. This is the army’s problem, I can’t ask you—”
“Captain, we can’t have the army treated like this. It’s bad for business.” Banning laughed and pulled back his coat. Hancock could see the reflection from a pistol in his belt. Now he saw other guns, men held up rifles, old muskets.
Another man spoke, Ben Wilson, a rancher. “Captain, we are your friends. Just tell us what to do. We’re here to help.”
Hancock looked at the faces, tried to see them in the dark, began to feel a sense of confidence, of strength. He pointed to the fence, said with a quiet firmness, “There, one of you in each of the four corners of the fence. One at the gate, one with me, here, by the doors. Use your ears, you’ll hear them before you see them. Don’t hesitate. If you hear anything, call out, be loud. Let them know we’re here. And, gentlemen, don’t shoot at anything without my order. No innocent casualties. Are we clear?”
There were short murmurs, nods, and the men began to spread out. Banning moved up and stood beside him.
Hancock said, “Phineas, thank you. I am fortunate to have such friends.”
Banning put a hand on his shoulder. “So are we, Captain, so are we.”
THE RAID did not come. Hancock sat quietly, a few feet from Banning, leaned against the wooden doors of the warehouse, began to see the bright glow in the east, heard the men begin to stir, standing, stretching, and now it was light enough to see faces clearly. He called them together, watched as the small army assembled. He wanted to say something, something more than a thank-you, but from down the road, away from town, there were hoofbeats, many horses, and a cloud of rising dust. His men turned, started to move, and Hancock listened, felt a rising alarm at the growing sound of many horses; too many. Then he saw them—a small flag, dull blue coats in the dim morning light: it was the cavalry.
The front of the column stopped at the picket fence, the line stretching down the road and around a curve, a full squadron, maybe a hundred men. Hancock’s civilian army came back together, stood in their own kind of formation, and he felt their pride, his friends standing at attention—they were being