In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 6

  “Could be there’s a reward out for him.”

  “Ain’t worth the trouble if there is. Now are you going to move this thing or do I have to shove you off and do the driving myself?”

  7

  Henry stopped to eat from the dwindling supply of food about three hours later. There was a small stand of trees a few hundred yards northeast of the road and he rode to them. He tied the horse to a scrub oak and removed a few pieces of dried meat from the saddle bag. The afternoon was hot and he rubbed his forehead; the skin felt sunburned and he wished for a hat. He turned to sit in the shade of a larger tree, and that’s when he saw the dust cloud coming from the south—fast.

  Fear clamped down on Henry’s innards. Somehow he knew these men were after him. He jammed the dried meat back in the saddle bag, untied the horse and climbed back in the saddle. He looked south; his heart sunk. There was a freshly beaten path through the grass leading from where he’d exited the road to the very spot where he now sat atop the big mare. He looked from the path to the riders and knew there was nowhere for him to hide.

  Henry gripped the reins as tight as he could and pushed the horse eastward. The landscape whizzed past as the horse galloped, all-out. Henry stole glances over his shoulder, but the sun was at his back and the glare blinded him. Eventually the horse started tiring and he had to let her slow to a walk.

  Gazing west twenty minutes later with his eyes squinted down to slits, Henry could see no sign of the riders and began doubting what he’d seen. What if the dust cloud had been stirred up by the wind? But there was no wind. Then he saw it again. It was farther away than the first time he’d spotted it, but it was there—a dusty break in the shimmering ground heat of the horizon. It was riders and they were heading in his direction. He yanked on the reins and urged the horse to continue east. He resisted his desire to push the animal and let her settle into a steady trot instead. He didn’t stop until sundown.

  Just before dark he came to a nearly dry creek. There were a few stagnant pools which he let the horse drink from. The canteen James “Red” Macklin had given him was getting low, but not low enough for him to risk filling it with the musty smelling water.

  He hoped it didn’t make the horse sick. “I dragged you into a heap of trouble and things jes keep going from bad to worse, don’t they?” he said to the mare as he removed the saddle for the night.

  He made a meal of some dried meat, and ate it unenthusiastically while keeping his eye on the west. He saw no sign of pursuit in the twilight. A wave of hopelessness washed over him as he lay his head on the saddle. He kept the pistol close.

  He awoke with a start. It was still dark. He realized he’d fallen asleep without tying up the horse. Jumping to his feet he clicked his tongue and called out softly. “Come over here now, girl. Click, click, click. Come on, now.” He listened intently: nothing. He tried again: “Click, click, click, come now, girl.” Feeling the first tinges of panic he began walking in an ever-widening circle around the area, calling out, then listening; calling out, then listening. A short time later he realized that he could see. It would be dawn soon. He walked back to where he’d slept, and ate a small amount of the salt pork and washed it down with a swallow of water. The faint glow slowly brightened, and he saw the mare about a hundred feet off, grazing. He ran over to her and led her back. “I must have walked right past you three times,” he said, shaking his head. He saddled her immediately and was on the move before the sun showed fully on the horizon.

  Four hours later he stopped and scanned the west. The riders were there and they had closed the distance from the previous afternoon by half. He guessed that if he stopped they would catch up with him within an hour. He really had no way of knowing for certain, though. He was a twenty-year-old plantation slave, not a tracker.

  He rode on, urging the horse back up to a gallop. The horse tired more quickly this time, but Henry pushed her harder, pulsing his legs and leaning forward, yelling Go, Go!

  What happened next, happened in a blink. At one moment Henry was seated solidly in the saddle, and the next he was tumbling through the air. He landed hard, his left leg hitting first with a loud snap before he turned end over end through grass and scrub. He lifted his head. The horse was lying several yards away, he could hear her breathing heavily. The world doubled, trebled, then went dark.

  Sometime later, several shadows moved over Henry’s battered body.

  Four

  1

  Commandant’s office, United States Military Academy, West Point, New York. April 6 1865.

  No need to linger in the doorway. Please sit, Cadet Elliot,” Commandant Black said without looking up from his work. John Elliot looked around the room nervously before stepping forward, removing his cap, and taking a seat in the large, leather-backed chair facing the commandant’s desk.

  After what seemed like an absurd amount of time to the young cadet, Commandant Black set aside his pen and eyed him from across the expanse of the spacious but tidy desk.

  “I’ve known your father for well over twenty years. He is a dear man, and I have a great respect for him. Thus I find myself in a rather uncomfortable position. Due to your, ahh, alleged impropriety, Mister Jonathon Hanfield has requested that you be immediately expelled from this academy. He has even gone so far as to demand your arrest. Now, while Mister Hanfield holds no authority within these walls, he remains a very, very influential man.” Commandant Black paused, thoughtfully running his hand over his long but neatly trimmed beard before reaching out and removing a cigar from the humidor on his desk. He smelled the cigar, running it slowly under his nose with his eyes closed before placing it neatly in front of him without lighting it. He turned his attention back to John.

  “It was expected that you would be among the top of your class and receive a respectable post near your family upon your graduation. That, however, is now impossible. It’s true, in fact, that were you another, you’d currently be sitting under lock and key ruminating upon your unseemly lack of self-control. And I would be finishing several very important letters instead of being burdened with the distasteful task of meting out justice based solely on politics: the politics of friendship, the politics of rectitude, and the politics of power and influence.

  Therefore, serving the best interests of all involved, you are being dismissed from this academy with a full military commission and rank of first lieutenant. This is an unprecedented maneuver and I trust you will not squander the opportunity. You have forty-eight hours to attend to your affairs, then you will see Captain Brewer regarding transport to Fort Laramie in the Dakota Territory. Upon your arrival, you will report to Colonel Picton. Word has already been sent to him. You will be assisting the colonel in training recruited Confederate prisoners and aiding him with the Indian situation. Do you have anything you would like to say Cade— Lieutenant Elliot?”

  “Sir, what if I wish to reject your generous offer and go home?”

  “This is not an offer, Lieutenant. Is there anything else?”

  John had been managing to hold Commandant Black’s gaze, but now dropped his eyes.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you are dismissed.”

  John stood, saluted, then turned and walked to the door.

  “And, Lieutenant?” Commandant Black queried just as John was grasping the doorknob.

  He turned around. “Sir?”

  “You will not discuss this matter outside the confines of your family. If you are not in Captain Brewer’s office at noon the day after tomorrow, you will be found, tried as a deserter, and hanged. Good day.”

  “Yes, sir. Good day, sir.”

  2

  John stared dejectedly through the window and watched the almost featureless Missouri countryside speed past. The train would take him as far as St. Joseph at the Kansas border where he would hook up with a group of wagons delivering supplies to Fort Laramie.

  His first instinct had been to run—exactly what Commandant Black had warned him against. He en
visioned he and Clara making for Texas, or perhaps California. He believed he could convince her to go with him.

  But then what?

  He would be a deserter from the army, and Clara’s father would stop at nothing to find her. Jonathon Hanfield might even take his anger out on John’s father, something that John couldn’t bear. No, he would have to wait, and hope that time or providence would light a way for he and Clara. A dark part of him hoped Jonathon Hanfield would die. He knew it was a selfish and malign thought, but he couldn’t shake it.

  His own father, who had expressed equal measures of disbelief and outrage at what he called Jonathon Hanfield’s “Second-hand revenge” was unable to sway Commandant Black to reverse his decision. “It was fortunate that I was even able to mediate on your son’s behalf. This will all blow over given proper time, George,” Commandant Black told John’s father over whiskey in the commandant’s study. “And, after it has, I will arrange another post for John—through the proper channels, of course. One that is closer to you. You must understand, however, that his service in the west must be exemplary and he must leave off this ridiculous and ill-fated romance with Clara Hanfield.” He rubbed at his rapidly balding head. “What in god’s name was he thinking?”

  John’s father ignored the question. “How long, Henry?”

  “I think four years should be sufficient. Possibly sooner if the young Miss Hanfield succeeds in wedding someone more to her father’s liking. Meanwhile, perhaps John will prove himself to be the adept leader all of his instructors at the academy believed him to be, and you will have the honor of welcoming home a captain. He should be viewing this as fortuitous. The unrest in the territories will provide opportunities for him to make a name for himself.”

  “I still can’t believe—”

  “That Jonathon Hanfield can somehow influence the Superintendent of the United States Military Academy and in turn the Commandant of Cadets? Don’t be naive, George. You of all people know how far his influence extends. And please keep in mind that your son’s foolishness is to blame here. Now, I appreciate the distance you have travelled on short notice, but I have a council, if you’ll excuse me. It appears a cadet was caught stealing laudanum from the infirmary.”

  Henry Black set down his not-quite-empty glass, then looked seriously at his longtime friend. “Did you know about it, George?”

  George Elliot was silent. It was answer enough for the commandant.

  The following morning a travel-weary George Elliot was preparing to board a steamship for his return to Manhattan. John stood beside him at the mooring.

  “You’ll be at least twenty-three when I see you next,” George Elliot said, looking at his son. “I don’t know what your mother would have made of this if she—”

  “She would have wanted me to marry Clara. No matter the consequences.”

  “You’re right, of course. But a woman doesn’t always think with her head. They make decisions of the heart. Which is why men have both the right and responsibility to the run of things.”

  “What if we chose to marry anyway?”

  George Elliot, who was both shorter and slimmer than his tall and stoutly built son nonetheless grabbed John by his wool military coat and gave him a brisk shake.

  “Don’t even think it. Jonathon Hanfield would have you stripped of your commission and dragged before a judge on some groundless charge you could never be prosecuted over, only to publically humiliate me and tarnish the Elliot name. He already claims that you attempted to violate Clara. He also says there was a witness.”

  John ignored this. “You stood up to him once.”

  “That was a long time ago and I was a headstrong young man. I—we, have too much to lose now and the truth of the matter is he could crush us now, if he truly set himself to it.”

  “I love her,” John said simply.

  “I know you do, Son. But it was a foolish endeavor from the beginning—not only yours, but mine. I actually let myself believe that Hanfield might put aside his petty grudge for the happiness of his daughter. So who was the bigger fool?”

  “I don’t believe that being in love with someone—anyone—makes a person a fool.”

  “Perhaps you’ll have a better understanding with the passage of time.”

  I certainly hope not, John thought bitterly.

  3

  “We’ll be in St. Joseph in about ten minutes, sir,” the conductor said as he passed John’s seat. John gave a nod without turning from the window. He heard the conductor repeat the notification a few times as he moved through the car. After a few moments he opened his satchel on the seat next to him and took an inventory, mostly to be doing something. It was just before eleven a.m..

  Although a far cry from New York, St. Joseph Missouri was bigger, busier, and more modern looking than John had imagined it. Riverboats dotted the Missouri River, and Fort Smith stood sentinel on a nearby hilltop.

  The day was cool but clear. Several men and one old woman exited the train along with John, but he was the only soldier. He stood on the splintered wood platform and looked down the length of the train, wondering when his horse would be offloaded. A lone man in animal skin clothing sat upon a split-rail fence that ran perpendicular to the station. His hair was long and hung in greasy strings nearly to his chest. He was smoking a misshapen cigar. The man afforded John a short nod, then stood. “Lieutenant Elliot?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sergeant Campbell wanted me to take you straight to the wagons instead of the fort. He’s in a rush to get moving,” the man said without giving his name.

  “I’m waiting for my horse, Mister...?”

  “Raines.”

  “Well, I don’t want to trouble you, Mister Raines. You can just direct me, and I’ll join Sergeant Campbell as soon as I’m able.”

  The man walked over and pointed roughly north. “See that church steeple? Go left just past it and follow the street till the end. Talk to Howard Clutterbuck—he’ll be the one flying that idiot flag with the skull on it over his barge. If he has a line, don’t wait, just go right on up. Army gets served first.”

  “Sounds easy enough. Thank you, Mister Raines.”

  The man grunted “Welcome,” and headed up the platform in the direction he’d pointed.

  4

  The northwest end of St. Joseph was more how he’d envisioned a city on the edge of the frontier. Well-kept brick and wood buildings gave way to dusty looking tents, and merchants peddled every imaginable ware from crudely built shanties resembling over-sized New York newspaper stands. The smell of livestock was overpowering.

  And wagons.

  John couldn’t even begin to count the number of wagons. People of all sorts milled everywhere: traders, soldiers, emigrants, gamblers.

  John spotted the tattered Jolly Roger right away. It hung from a crooked branch tied to the railing of a large, flat-bottomed river barge. A wagon was being pushed up on the barge, and John rode up behind. “That horse going to be still?” asked a fat man in a derby hat.

  “I’ll mind him,” John answered as he walked the horse up.

  The fifteen supply wagons were hitched and ready when John arrived on the west bank of the Missouri. His horse, which he had purchased on a whim in Hannibal, was restless and jumpy after the river crossing. It gave a short buck and nearly threw him as he approached the line of wagons. This raised a chuckle from the small group of men surrounding them. It was a motley group of about twenty-five: a few in uniform, most not. One of them was the man who’d been sitting in front of the train station when John had arrived. There was also a negro with a thick scar on his face, standing alone several feet away from the other men. He was the only one among them who didn’t appear soiled and unkempt. He regarded John impassively.

  As John dismounted, two men in cavalry uniforms exited what looked like a small livery. They spotted John, then spoke a few words together. One of them turned and walked to the group of men by the wagons, the other approached John.

 
; “Lieutenant Elliot?” he inquired, then almost as an afterthought, he saluted. He was a short and burly man of about thirty with a strawberry colored beard.

  John returned the salute; it was only the third one he’d received since prematurely becoming an officer, and he felt like an imposter.

  “I’m Sergeant Campbell, sir. I was notified you’d be travelling with us just yesterday…I’m sorry for the hurry, but we received word that another two companies of galvanized volunteers are being sent up from a prisoner camp in Illinois, and frankly, sir, they don’t equip these southerners very well. With all of the comings and goings here lately we’re running short of just about everything as it is. This supply run was patched together on short notice mostly because we needed boots. The wagons aren’t nearly fully loaded so we’ll make good time, anyway.”

  “I understand. I’m prepared to be underway immediately. I would like to unburden my horse of some of my belongings…”

  “Henry?” the sergeant said. “Would you please find a place in your wagon for the lieutenant’s property.”

  5

  Less than an hour later they were on their way. John chose to ride his new stud for awhile, he was proud of the acquisition. The big, high spirited horse was the only thing to bring a smile to his face since his summons to Commandant Black’s office.

  The fabled prairie spread out before him, golden and as seemingly as wide as the sea. He thought it was beautiful in its fashion, but he also knew right away that he could never feel at home in the open, desolate looking country. To him it somehow felt like loneliness.

  He rode up next to the wagon being driven by Sergeant Campbell. He had a million questions he wanted to ask, but he also didn’t want to appear naive.

  “How go things at the fort, Sergeant?”

  “Busy as a hive of bees, Lieutenant, sir. Most of us have been sent from elsewhere now that the war’s finally winding down—I’ve been here seven months, and that makes me a veteran as far as the regular army goes. My father did some trapping on the Yellowstone and Platte, and I guess they thought I’d take to the country like he did. I like it well enough, but I can’t say I wouldn’t rather be back in Illinois.