In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 7
Anyhow, we’re trying to put things together like a proper military post. Damn volunteers got the place in shambles—army’s been mustering some of them out, but some are staying on for awhile on account of the Indians. Fighting may be done with the secessionists, but it’s looking like there’s going to be more of it up here. Possibly a lot more. After what happened down at Big Sandy Creek, Indians have been causing more problems to settlers and folks on the trails.”
“What happened at Big Sandy Creek?”
“I guess news is a little slow going out. Cavalry under Colonel Chivington cleaned out a Cheyenne camp. Killed most everyone there—women and children included. Who’re you going to be serving under, sir?”
“Colonel Picton…women and children? Why? Did the Indians attack us, or the other way around?”
“Hmm. I haven’t heard of him. And the answer to that question depends on who you ask.”
“What if I was to ask you?”
The sergeant, who’d been facing forward, minding the team while conversing, spared a look at John. “I’d say we’re taking a lot of what don’t belong to us, sir. And in light of that I don’t see it matters much—who attacked who, I mean. What would you do if a bunch of folks came and started putting up fences where you usually hunted for your supper?”
“It’s my understanding, Sergeant, that the treaties with the Indians provides ample land for them as well as other provisions for their welfare.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, that sort of thing may look fine on a few sheets of paper, but if one side don’t keep up their end of the bargain, and the other side doesn’t really understand the bargain in the first place, it all spells trouble to me. Of course, I’m just a sergeant, and one that don’t know how to keep his opinions to himself most times at that.”
“And is it your opinion that the United States government has broken the treaties it’s made with the local indigenous?”
“I’m not saying that exactly, sir.”
“You can speak plainly, Sergeant,” John said with a rueful laugh. “Not very long ago I was a cadet at the military academy still a year away from graduation. I was hoping for eventual placement that didn’t take me too far from my home and…and someone I cared about. I’ve yet to form an opinion on any of the politics of my new posting.”
“Well, sir, I haven’t been here long enough to say for certain, and these matters are better left to more educated folks, but I think we’ve put the Indians in a position to where they almost have to fight us. I mean, sir, it’s a big country, but it isn’t that big.”
“It certainly looks big from where I’m sitting. The prairie stretches the imagination. I would think there is plenty of room for all of us.”
“It’s getting smaller all the time, sir.”
6
They made camp just before dark, about eighteen miles from St. Joseph. The men went about their duties as a matter of course. John tried to stay out of the way and made busy seeing to his mount. Randall Flemington, a private, and the only other regular soldier among them approached him as he was removing the saddle.
“Excuse me, sir?” The thin and rather timid looking private inquired tentatively.
“Yes, Private…” John began, looking at the other man questioningly while still holding the saddle.
“Flemington, sir. Randall Flemington. Ahh, sir, Henry will take care of your horse for you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, carrying the saddle over to a nearby wagon and setting it on top of the tarped load of supplies.
“Well, sir. That’s what he’s getting paid for.”
John glanced over at Henry, who was leading a pair of horses he’d just unhitched from a wagon toward the place where the rest of the horses were tied.
“He looks like he has enough work to earn his pay, Private. I’ll manage my own animal.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. Aubrey Gibbs should have some chow ready shortly.”
When John was finished tending to his horse he walked over to where most of the men were gathered around two campfires.
“Join me over here, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Campbell called from where he was seated on a small wooden stool. He gestured toward an identical stool to his right. John took the offered seat.
“Private Flemington, please fetch the lieutenant some supper.”
The private set down his own half-finished plate and walked over to where a big-bellied man with a beard nearly to his waist was stirring a large cook-pot over a third fire.
“Army’s sending out officers younger and younger. The lieutenant’s face is as smooth as a babe’s backside,” said a man sitting on his bedroll wearing a filthy, red union suit and patched wool trousers. This prompted a chuckle from the other men around the fire.
“This man is an officer of the United States Cavalry, Mister Hardin,” Sergeant Campbell said sternly. “Your contract requires that you address him as a subordinate. You will apologize to the lieutenant at once.”
“Beggin’ the lieutenant’s pardon. I was just foolin’ a bit.”
“No offense taken, Mister Hardin,” John said amicably. Then he leaned forward slightly and eyed the man levelly. “I assure you that my age is not a shortcoming, nor should you ever equate it with weakness.”
“Well a’course not,” the man answered, looking discomposed.
“Sir?” Private Flemington said, holding out a plate of what looked like some sort of stew and a thick slice of bread. John looked up at him and took the plate.
“Thank you,” he said.
The stew tasted as bland as it looked, but the bread was obviously fresh—probably baked that morning. He used it to sop up every drop of the flavorless liquid. Bland or not, he was famished.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant. I was laying out some feed for the horses and was wondering if you might want me to tether your horse with the others?” Henry said, coming up behind him.
“Yes, thank you. It’s Henry, isn’t it?” John said, setting down his plate and standing.
“That’s right,” Henry said, tossing the grain sack he was carrying from one shoulder to the other.
“Well, Henry, I could use a stretch after the long train trip and the ride today. I’ll walk him over, you just show me where you want him.”
“Today was a short travelling day. The sergeant will want to make thirty miles or better tomorrow.”
“It’s been awhile since I spent all day in the saddle; since I was a boy.” John untied his horse from the wagon he’d left it by and followed Henry to the far end of their camp. There was a rope line tied between two wagons and the seventy some-odd horses were tethered there.
“That’s a fine looking animal,” Henry said.
“He is indeed,” John agreed, and ran his hand down the horse’s flank. “Private Flemington tells me you’re a scout. Forgive me, but I am curious as to how you came upon such a profession.”
“I lived with the Cheyenne…for a time.”
“And how would you describe them? The stories back in New York are…conflicting.”
“I really need to finish up here so I can get some supper.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Henry.” John walked back toward the campfires, sparing a thoughtful look over his shoulder at Henry.
“I never would have thought there would be a colored scout out here,” John said, sitting back down next to Sergeant Campbell.
“He’s the only one I know of, and I don’t expect he’ll be doing anymore scouting for the U.S. Army.”
“Why is that?”
“Henry’s been scouting for Colonel Watt up in the Nebraska Territory for the last few months. He only found out about Big Sandy Creek a few hours before we set out for Fort Laramie. He wasn’t very happy, and he’s made it clear he’ll be moving on once we get back to the fort. It’s unfortunate for the army. He’s a reliable scout and Indian interpreter, a good trapper, and a crack shot with a rifle, too. You’ll appreciate the game he brings in on this trip.”
“He doesn’t talk about it much, but I know he lived with Chief Black Kettle and his clan of Cheyenne a few years back. It was Black Kettle’s band and some others that was at Big Sandy Creek.”
“Was this Black Kettle killed?”
“No, he’s alive. I heard his wife was shot. If it’s true, I haven’t heard whether or not she survived.”
“Should have killed every damned one of them,” Raines, the man who’d been sitting on the fence at the train station, said from across the fire. There was a murmur of agreement from the men, most of whom were already lying on their bedrolls around the fire.
“Unarmed men, women and children?” Henry spoke up from the shadows. He was leaning up against the nearest wagon. He had a plate of stew in his hand.
Raines pointed the stick he’d been whittling on at Henry. “I know you’re cozy with the red sons of bitches, but those savages been raiding innocent folks from here to Kansas; stealing horses and livestock and all. Those savages even been carryin’ off women and babes—eatin’ ‘em, I hear.”
“Let’s not forget that family down in Colorado Territory,” another man added.
“The Hungates.” This was Private Flemington.
“That’s right. The Hungates,” Raines concurred, waving his stick in Henry’s direction. “What do you say to that, injun lover?”
“I say I won’t speak to ignorance,” Henry said, setting his still full plate down on the wagon and walking away.
“You calling me ignorant, you black son-of-a-bitch?” the man called after him.
“I suggest you leave-off now,” John admonished with as much authority as he could muster.
The man regarded John from across the dwindling fire. Finally, he said: “Yes, sir,” and tipped an exaggerated salute in John’s direction. Then he lay back on his bedroll muttering under his breath. “Fucking army pup…”
7
The news of President Lincoln’s assassination, relayed to them via a lone rider bound for Fort Laramie, came on April eighteenth. The reaction of the men was mixed and the first couple of evenings following the news there was much animated conversation around the campfire.
Otherwise, the rest of the weeks long journey was largely uneventful. There was a brief stopover at Fort Kearny—which John discovered was little more than a few mud hovels and a parade ground—where they were joined by three soldiers bound for Fort Laramie. They were forced to negotiate a few isolated patches of remaining snow, but outside of some sweat and cursing at the heavily laden wagons, the men all agreed it was a relatively easy go. John slowly became accustomed to the openness of the country, and spent his days learning what he could of life around Fort Laramie and of the Indians. He found it difficult to separate the wheat from the chaff in regards to information about the Indians, however, and decided he’d just have to wait and find out for himself. The men were largely settlers and teamsters, and most of them held the Indians in low regard. He attempted to canvas Henry on several occasions and was met with cordial yet clipped answers. At night he wrote letters to Clara he knew he’d never send, and conversed with Sergeant Campbell, who he’d come to like and respect.
The supply caravan arrived at Fort Laramie on the seventh of May, shortly after noon. As had become his habit when not riding his horse, John was seated on the wagon driven by Sergeant Campbell. Like St. Joseph, John wasn’t sure of what he was expecting, but it wasn’t what he was seeing. It looked more like a small town constructed on a bend in the river than it did a military fort. Rows of infantry tents, wagons by the score as well as several small Indian camps were scattered around the area. Indian women and children approached the wagon with their hands out, saying, “Náháéána, náháéána .”
“Move away, savages,” one of the wagon drivers shouted at them.
John looked down at them with a mixture of pity and fascination. He didn’t understand the language, but what they wanted was obvious. He reached into his coat and removed a small sack which contained some beef jerky and a few pieces of hard candy. He tossed it to a girl of about ten.
“They’ll be following you all over the territory now, Lieutenant. You hand out to ‘em once, they come to expect it,” one of the men called from behind him.
“Mind your team, Mister Pearson,” Sergeant Campbell responded from his seat beside John.
Henry, whose wagon was at the end of the convoy, silently took several small, cloth bundles from the floorboard by his feet and tossed them on the ground as he passed.
8
The men scattered almost immediately with few goodbyes. John wanted to say a farewell to Henry, but soon after entering the fort, Henry was nowhere to be found.
Sergeant Campbell had a harried looking corporal locate Colonel Picton while he gave John a brief rundown on the fort’s essential amenities. A short time later, the corporal returned with instructions as to where John was to be quartered, along with an invitation to meet with Colonel Picton in one hour. John shook hands with Sergeant Campbell—who assured him he would have his horse cared for—and followed the corporal to his quarters.
His housing turned out to be a large tent with a cot and makeshift desk as its only furnishings. He wondered why he hadn’t been housed in the officer’s quarters. Before they entered, the corporal pointed to an even larger tent some hundred feet away, and identified it as Colonel Picton’s.
“Can I get you anything, Lieutenant?”
“Some coffee, if some can be had.”
“I’ll have some brought around.”
The coffee never arrived and at just before two o’clock John walked from his tent to the one the corporal had said belonged to
Colonel Picton. There was no guard outside, and after a moment’s deliberation John opened the tent flap slightly, and peered in. There was a man dressed in gray trousers and a red flannel shirt standing bent over a wide, plank table, his back to John. He appeared to be looking at maps.
“Colonel Picton?” John asked doubtfully.
“You’re punctual; a good quality. Come in,” the man said without turning. John entered the somewhat smoky tent and lingered in the entry. After a moment the man—presumably Colonel Picton—walked over to a brass clad steamer trunk, lifted the lid, and removed a bottle and two glasses. He poured without a word, then stepped toward John.
“I came by this whiskey not long after Shiloh. Some Confederate deserters were transporting twenty bottles of it, along with other plundered goods, aboard a farm wagon. We confiscated everything, of course, and hanged the thieves. An unpleasant but necessary punishment befitting the crime.” He held one of the glasses up and admired it for a moment before handing it to John. “This is the last bottle, and I fear I’ll never taste a finer whiskey.” He took a sip with his eyes closed, savoring it, before slowly lowering his glass. “Sit down, please.”
There were several chairs lined up on the far side of the plank table (which took up most of the tent) and John chose one at the end. He looked up at Colonel Picton expectantly. The man was of average height and build with brown shoulder-length hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. He was an unremarkable man, by John’s reckoning, save for his eyes, which were a stunning hazel that glowed like gold.He ran his free hand lightly over one of the many maps on the table, then turned his attention back to John.
“Do you treasure our republic?”
“Yes, sir,” John answered.
“You will not address me as sir. You will call me Frank. Or if that is too informal for your sensibilities, you can address me as Mister Picton. I will call you John. Also, after we conclude our conference here today, you will begin wearing non-military clothing and will not
don your uniform for the duration of your service under my command. Our undertaking will require us to keep the United States Government well out of scrutiny. The men who will be serving under us are discharged soldiers, mustered-out volunteers, and ex-Confederate prisoner
s of war; all technically citizens, who are, therefore, not beholden to military guidelines. This is a…privateer undertaking by concerned patriots. The men will be paid twice the regular army wage and, for the sake of some semblance of military order, will still address you and I as sir. You…well, you were to serve under me in a entirely different capacity until I received this letter ten days ago.” He tapped a sheet of paper on the table with his finger. “Under normal circumstances I would simply have you reassigned elsewhere, but these are not normal circumstances. The fact that you received your commission through questionable channels only complicates matters. So, I am under obligation to make use of you.” He drained his whiskey, set his glass on the table, and picked up a different sheet of paper and a leather billfold.
“These are your discharge papers; awaiting only your signature. This will stand until our task is satisfactorily completed. Afterward, you will be reinstated at the rank of Captain, and be posted to the location of your choosing. This I promise you as a gentleman.” He handed the paper to John along with the billfold. “As soon as you sign the discharge, the five hundred dollars in that billfold will be yours, and there will be another five hundred when we are finished.”
“With respect, sir—Mister Picton, I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” John said, setting the paper and the billfold on the table in front of him by his untouched whiskey.
“John, would you agree that the Confederacy is—was, a threat to our nation?” He took a seat next to John and gazed at him earnestly.
“Yes, of course.”
“There is another threat. One that could divide this republic every bit as much as the southern secession if we don’t act swiftly. This nation’s prosperity and growth is being challenged by those ungrateful red-skinned savages out there. We offer them agreeable terms; we take them in and generously share the fruits of our labor with them.