The Last Pilgrims (10 page)

He and and his wife planted these three
pecan trees 25 years ago, not long before she gave birth to David,
their first child. Now, a quarter of a century later, the trees
were fully-grown and in full production. The lifespan of these
trees was not usually expected to be much longer than that, though
some pecan trees in this area had been known to live and produce
for many, many decades. There were pecan trees in the Wall’s
orchard and along the creek and down by the lower tank that were
already 30 years old, planted there when the Vallenses first came
to this land. Although they were still healthy and strong, the
Vallenses planted more nut and fruit trees every year, planning for
the future.

When he looked at the towering trees heavy
with green pecans, he remembered the day they had planted them. He
could recall Elizabeth—pregnant with David—watching and laughing at
him. It was spring, and back then, Jonathan had thought it was the
spring of their lives together. But God had seen fit to take her,
and it was not up to him to question the wisdom, goodness, and
severity of a Sovereign God.

He still had David, and his two daughters
Elizabeth (who had been named after his wife), and Ruth. Betsy had
been married to Paul Miller for five years now, and had given him
his two grandchildren—Jon and Thomas.

David was his friend, his partner, and his
constant worry. His son knew perfectly well the reasons and the
apologetics for the pacifism of the Vallenses. Still, in the past
few years, as the attacks on the peaceful communities of believers
had increased and had become more heinous and violent, David had
become more militant. He still obeyed the wishes of his father, and
submitted to the commands of the Church, but he was
constantly—albeit within the bounds of what would be
allowed—agitating for war with Aztlan.

He was still too young by five years to be
an Elder in the Vallensian Church, but a year ago, David had asked
to speak in front of a meeting of all of the Elders, even those
from distant communities, and he had made a heartfelt plea and
argument for active Vallensian material assistance to the militias.
His argument had been so good that it had split the community—a
split that remained to this day. Though both sides had agreed to
listen to and to tolerate one another, and though the Vallenses’
official position on violence had not changed, Jonathan knew that a
significant number of God’s people in the Vallensian Church were
now in support of active participation in the war.

He also suspected that many of the
Vallenses, although maybe not in Bethany or in this region, were
surreptitiously giving direct aid to the militia. If discovered by
Aztlan, this behavior would be considered an act of war.

An act of war
, Jonathan mused.
Aztlan commits acts of war against us on a regular basis.
But he still believed that pacifism was both the wise path, and the
path of Christ. In this way of thinking, he had always been almost
Tolstoyan. Leo Tolstoy—the famed author of War and Peace—had also
been an extreme pacifist, and Jonathan had studied his arguments
against violence for many years. In other ways, Tolstoy was
unorthodox, and probably even a heretic, but his arguments against
the use of violence were solid and well grounded.

Jonathan had heard all of the arguments in
favor of violence, and he understood his opponents on the subject
very well. But history had shown that the pacifistic plain people
had been preserved for over 700 years, while any militaristic group
formed during that same period, including the empires of England,
France, Japan, and the United States, had ceased to exist. Who
knows, maybe the Swiss, up in their Alpine chalets, were still safe
and sound with their guns and ammo; but if they were, they were the
exception that proved the rule.

Defensive violence was a valid philosophy in
the short term, but in terms of long-term survival, eventually all
violent nations or groups ceased to be. The Amish and the Vallenses
still existed in what used to be America. In contrast, The Hell’s
Angels and the U.S. Army no longer did—at least as far as he knew.
Knowledge of the true nature of the outside world didn’t extend
very far.

Before he knew it, lost in his own thoughts,
Jonathan found himself strolling in the orchard. The air was
markedly cooler there—sometimes by as much as 20 degrees—than
elsewhere on the ranch. Jonathan plucked a peach from one of the
trees and examined it. Not quite fully ripe, but getting close. The
Walls and all of their people would be swarming over the orchard
soon, bringing in the harvest of peaches.

He sat down in the shade of the trees, to
enjoy the sweet fruit, wiping the juice from his mouth on his
sleeve. His wife Elizabeth would have scolded him for that, but
Winnie, his laundry maid, never said anything. Elizabeth hated to
have to scrub the juice out of his shirts in summer.

Jonathan’s thoughts rolled back through the
years and he saw Elizabeth as a young woman, before they were
married, hefting spade and pick and post-hole digger as dutifully
as any man as they dug the holes for some of these very trees.
Phillip had been there too, but that was before they had quarreled
over her, and over Phillip’s mercenary activities, and over just
about everything else that you can possibly imagine.

Now Elizabeth was dead, but Phillip was
back, and war was looming on the horizon. Everything he and
Elizabeth had built was now in jeopardy.

Phillip’s own family was now kidnapped.
Their lives were in peril, and the Ghost had ridden off with most
of the militia to try to find them and rescue them.

God’s ways are mysterious, mused Jonathan.
Still, we know that He is perfect and good, and that we can
trust Him
.

In the distance, he could see Timothy riding
towards the orchard at great speed. He stood up and walked out to
meet him.

Timothy quickly dismounted. The young
militia soldier was strong and handsome, as well as humble and
intelligent, Jonathan observed. He wondered what had happened to
the boy’s parents and to the rest of his family. The pastor made a
mental note to ask him sometime.

In the weeks Timothy had been at the ranch,
Jonathan had not learned much about him, except that he was
diligent in his duty, and committed to keeping the Wall family
safe.

Under normal circumstances, Jonathan would
not have allowed militia guards to watch over his family. However,
Phillip had not only insisted on providing protection, but had made
it known that the Walls were going to be guarded whether they liked
it or not. At least, this way, Phillip reasoned, Jonathan and his
family could have some communication and relationship with the men
who guarded them. He had reluctantly agreed, so long as no
Vallenses were to engage in violence. The young man had shown
himself to be extraordinarily committed to the safety of the Wall
family, Ruth in particular.

Timothy and David had also grown close,
which greatly troubled him. David already had the propensity to be
inclined towards violence as a means, and he was worried that his
son would now grow even more ‘militia minded’ than was good for any
Vallensian. The two young men, along with another young ghost
militiaman named Robin, who they all called ‘The Hood’, had been
spending an inordinate amount of time together.

He often wondered what it would be like to
have been born and raised after the collapse, and to have never
known hearth or kin. In many ways, even literally in most cases,
the young men of the militia were orphans. They were a band of
brothers, sworn to one another and to their cause. They were modern
Cossacks or Spartans. They had no homes, no real property, and very
little likelihood of ever finding love or marriage. He admired
them, even as he pitied them. His son just simply admired them.
Jonathan longed for a day when there would be no need for the
militia; yet, he knew that that day wouldn’t come until the Lord
returned.

Timothy interrupted this solemn train of
thought, “The Elders of your people have requested that Your Honor
gather with them for a meeting in Bethany. We’ve just heard news
via post rider from there.”

“Stop calling me Your Honor, Timothy”

“I’m sorry Your Honor, but we have to obey
our code and rules, as created by Phillip. Hence, a request for you
not be addressed formally would have to come directly from
Phillip.”

“What if I were to fight you over it?”

“Some folks might find that rather
refreshing.”

“I understand,” Jonathan said, knowing he
would get nowhere arguing with Ghost militia reasoning. “What news
from the post rider? What is this all about?”

“Well, Your Honor, that was the complete
substance of the message to you. However, in questioning the rider,
I learned that the Duke’s attack force is a day’s ride from San
Angelo, and will be here in less than three. Their numbers are
estimated at about five-hundred men.”

“Five hundred men!” These days, forces that
large were almost unheard of. Once upon a time, armies of thousands
and tens of thousands had marched through Texas and the South;
post-collapse, a force of even a few hundred men was difficult to
mobilize and command.

“Will you let them take and burn San Angelo?
What is the militia going to do? We have to evacuate the frontier…
but there isn’t time. Five hundred men? For what?” He was
exasperated and angry, “Five hundred men to kill pacifists,
farmers, and traders?”

“The situation is not good. Phillip is out
with a sizable force, attempting to rescue his wife and daughters.
We were not expecting the Duke’s army for another couple of weeks
or so…” Tim rubbed his youthful beard and began to fiddle with the
grip of his sword. To Jonathan, he seemed almost ashamed that the
Ghost militia was caught unprepared.

“They must have marched by night or traveled
on some course we did not expect them to take. Though even those
options seem unlikely,” he paused for a moment. “In fact, Your
Honor, I cannot say how the Duke’s army got here this fast without
being noticed. But, that is all beside the point. I am confident
that militia outriders and recon units will be sent along the path
of the Aztlani army. They will harass them and thin their numbers
some, but as things are now, no attempt will be made to defend San
Angelo… it’s always been considered indefensible. Every trader and
merchant there knows it.”

Jonathan stared southward, pondering on the
implications of these words. When he finally spoke, his voice was
distant and cold, despite the heat of the day. “It’s the Winter
Massacre all over again.”

In his mind, he was back on the frozen
rolling hills East of San Angelo, loading bodies of his own
people—mostly women, children, and the elderly—onto a haycart, to
take them to Bethany for burial.

At that moment, his son David and two other
militia riders approached in haste.

“We have to ride, Father. The Elders are
gathering and there is no time to waste,” David urged.

Timothy interjected, “Perhaps we can bring
the Elders of the Vallenses here to the ranch? We have two small
units in and around Bethany, and a more sizeable unit here. It’s
likely that the Vallenses can pull back from the frontier in time,
if we send word now. The Aztlani goal is to raze Bethany, and they
will do it, without a doubt. This place, however, is defensible. It
is built on high ground. Any way they try to approach this ranch,
they must come uphill.”

“This isn’t the Alamo, Timothy. It’s a
farm.”

As they spoke, Ruth rode up on Jonathan’s
horse Laredo. Louise trotted along behind her obediently. Ruth had
a large leather satchel that riders called a ‘wallet’, and after
dismounting, she stowed it in the saddlebag. “There’s food and
supplies here for several men for a few days.”

Jonathan thanked Ruth, and kissed her on her
forehead. “You take care of everyone here. I’ll be back sometime
tomorrow… if the Lord wills.” Ruth just nodded in reply.

“Please listen, Your Honor,” Tim spoke with
a growing sense of urgency, “we can ride hard to Bethany and bring
the Elders here. Our orders are to keep you and your family
safe.”

Jonathan shook his head. “According to
Gareth, the Aztlanis have no desire or plans to harm me or my
family.”

“We still don’t know if Gareth is an Aztlani
spy or not, but that is all the more reason for you and the Elders
to meet here and not in Bethany.”

“It’s out of the question,” Jonathan replied
softly, “our colonies between here and San Angelo would be cut off;
and, if we do not ride now, we’ll lose a whole day that might be
used to get some of our people to safety.”

“Father’s right, Tim, we have to ride to
Bethany now,” David agreed.

“
Besides, this isn’t about
me,” Jonathan added.

“I’m sorry to disagree with you, Your
Honor,” Tim said with his eyes down. “This has always been about
you.”

The heat was oppressive again, but David
could see that the white cumulonimbus clouds off to the South and
West were beginning to conglomerate and build skyward, looking like
a giant volcanic eruption towering to perhaps 40,000 feet—an
ominous portent of possible severe weather. The clouds were forming
a squall line, probably still several hours away off to the south
and west towards San Angelo.
Maybe those Aztlani soldiers will
get an appropriate welcome to the tornado belt
, he thought.
David hoped some rain would cool things down, and maybe hinder the
Aztlani advance. Weather in Texas is notoriously unpredictable, and
quite often such storms just blow by without dropping any rain at
all, or they simply disappear.

His father had sent messengers to gather at
Bethany as many Elders and members of the council as could be
reached on short notice. Jonathan Wall was trusted to act on behalf
of the community in case of emergency, but he felt strongly that
the situation required some unanimity in opinion among the
leadership. That would be hard, considering the current differences
of opinion on the defense issue.