Beneath a Wounded Sky

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  “The bluecoats continue up the banks of the Big Greasy. The Iron Shirts plan to cut through the hills to meet them where the White Water meets the Big Greasy.”

  “They must mean Old Man’s Pass to Dead Bull Creek,” Storm Arriving said.

  “That is what I thought, also,” the Little Fox said. “But he speaks like a child and has no name for anything.” He went on. “We are to follow the bluecoats along and keep them moving.”

  Storm Arriving smiled. “They think to catch the bluecoats before they reach the narrowing at the White Cliffs.”

  “It seems so.”

  “Tell them we understand. We will follow on the bluecoats’ heels.”

  The interpreter relayed the response, and the Iron Shirts turned and rode back to join their forces, now already on the march.

  “They do not know how fast the bluecoats can travel,” Storm Arriving said. His chuckle was mirthless, almost cruel. “Suddenly I am glad for our new alliance.”

  Down on the plain, the pale hint of dawn limned shadowy figures trudging along in dark groups. Lanterns held on poles provided each block a guide to follow until the dawn strengthened. George looked farther, to the second Iron Shirt camp.

  “Wait,” he said as Storm Arriving turned to leave. The others stopped. “Look,” George said, pointing. “Out there.”

  They all peered into the distance, searching through the faint light for sign of the other camp.

  “Where are they?” Grey Bear asked.

  As George feared, the other camp was empty; the marine contingent was already on its way.

  “When did they leave? Why didn’t we know?” Storm Arriving asked.

  “They must have left while we were gone,” Grey Bear said. “We weren’t watching them.”

  Storm Arriving growled. “They are miles ahead. They will be there before the bluecoats.”

  “With their guns,” George added.

  “Yes,” Storm Arriving agreed. “With their guns.” He wheeled his mount. “We go,” he said. “Fast.”

  Storm Arriving gave orders to his men as they rode and when they reached the others, his orders spread like fire through summer grass. In minutes the entire force had stepped up the pace, riding through the blue light of dawn, heading for the banks of the Big Greasy.

  George’s walker, rested and fresh, kept up easily, and he quickly found Mouse Road and Whistling Elk.

  Storm Arriving rode up a moment later and told them the news.

  “What can we do about the guns?” Whistling Elk asked, visibly worried.

  “I have some thoughts on that,” George said, and proceeded to explain.

  Storm Arriving listened as they rode, attentive to every detail.

  They pushed their mounts to the limit, following the bluecoat trail over the easy land along the banks of the Big Greasy. The river was quiet, flat and so muddy it looked solid enough to walk across. It would rouse itself soon enough, George knew, when the season’s rains dumped torrents into its bed. The land they crossed today would be underwater in a month’s time, but for now, the river lay sleeping.

  George steered his walker close to Mouse Road’s whistler.

  “All good?”

  Yes, she signed. “Whistler riding is easy.”

  “Good,” he said, but still he worried. He was bringing his wounded wife and unborn child into battle. Not even his father would be so reckless. “Keep your eyes open,” he said. “Stay back. No fighting for you.”

  She laughed. “Whistling Elk tells me there are a thousand spirit warriors waiting for us. We will not have to fight.”

  It was something George had not considered. He wondered if she might be correct.

  The sun was still high in the forenoon when they caught the bluecoat force. Rear guardsmen spotted them but, thankfully, Meriwether had given preemptive orders and the first shots were warning shots.

  Storm Arriving drew them all to a halt. Above, the sky grumbled with dry lightning and Storm Arriving turned to George.

  “Your plan. Your signal.”

  George clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. He nodded to Two Roads who nodded to the soldiers who were in charge of the cache of explosives they brought from home. One man had a half-charge affixed to an arrow, while the other carried a charcoal brazier. The first man touched the fuse to the embers, let it sputter, and shot it high in the air.

  George and Meriwether had agreed on a signal arrow to seal their pact, but they had expected to meet on the battlefield. George did not want any doubts, did not want anyone to think this was an ambush, so he constructed an arrow that could only be construed as a signal.

  The arrow hissed upward and the crosswind grabbed it, pulling it sideways away from both parties. It exploded with a sharp thud of fire and smoke.

  George watched with keen interest, but could not see what was happening. Heron in Treetops peered intently toward the other force.

  “Another bluecoat has joined them,” he said. “He has gold on his shoulders and white gloves at his belt.”

  “Meriwether,” George said.

  “He looks at us with far-seeing glasses,”

  George stood in his saddle ropes and waved.

  “He takes a white cloth from his pocket,” Heron in Treetops said. “He waves it.”

  “Let us go and meet our new friends,” Storm Arriving said, not without a hint of acid in his tone.

  Meriwether and his command staff were waiting for them. The rank and file surrounding them looked nervous, having learned a keen respect for what the approaching men could do in battle. Meriwether nudged his horse forward from the group and George and Storm Arriving did likewise. George turned at a sound and saw Mouse Road toeing her whistler ahead as well.

  Meriwether touched the brim of his slouch hat. “Mr. Custer,” he said, and with a nod to Mouse Road, added, “Ma’am. Good to see you again.”

  George relayed the general’s words and saw Storm Arriving hide a smile and a sidelong glance at his sister. Then George introduced the principals to one another, and they got to the heart of it.

  “The Spanish have marched through the night,” George told them, “and are waiting for you just south of where the White River joins the Missouri. They have five field guns and will control the heights. We need to get you past them, if you want to meet them at the White Cliffs.”

  Meriwether studied George and the others. “You seem to think you know my mind quite well,” he said.

  George relayed his words, listened, and carefully returned with the response.

  “Storm Arriving speaks. He says he presumed you were returning to our starting place. It is a good choice. It is where he would have chosen to meet the Spanish. He apologizes. He thought you were smart enough to see this, also.”

  Meriwether’s smile was broad and genuine. “Please tell your war chief that he is not incorrect. Tell him that as a commander, I have admired his methods for some time, now. I am glad to learn that the war chief Storm Arriving is as appreciative of the power of history as he is of military tactics. And, if he wishes, please ask him what it is he proposes to do.”

  George told the others what was said and waited for the response. Storm Arriving just looked at George, and then motioned toward Meriwether.

  “So?” he said sternly. “Tell him. Must I put every word in your mouth?” Then he smiled. “Go on.”

  George was unused to such authority in proceedings like this, but he took it up and relayed their plan to Meriwether.

  “We must move fast. Your men can cover much more ground than the Spanish believe, but now you must prove it. You must move with all speed.”

  He set the stage with his hands, blocking out their major movements.

  “We will be first past the mouth of Dead Bull Creek. You will follow, as if in pursuit. You must be close to us, so that the artillery will not fire for fear of hitting us.”

  “And if they do?” Meriwether said. “If they decide that killing me is worth wounding you?”

&
nbsp; George shrugged. “Then we all come to harm, but likely not all of us. Enough will survive to achieve our separate goals.”

  Meriwether nodded. “Continue,” he said.

  George laid it all out for them, every move and counter-move. If Meriwether had the least desire to betray them, he could destroy them all, natives and Spaniards alike. George tried to measure the general, but his professionalism made him inscrutable. They would have to roll the die and hope.

  When George finished, he could see Meriwether going back over the details in his mind, looking for pitfalls. After a moment, he nodded and spoke to his staff.

  “Drop the artillery here. Drop everything that isn’t absolutely required for the assault. We will be moving quickly, so no formations. Make sure all men have a full canteen before we set out.” He pulled a watch from his vest pocket. “Be ready in ten minutes.”

  His staff moved out quickly and then Meriwether turned to George.

  “They will have spotters on the high ground, so don’t pass us until we get close to Dead Bull Creek. It must look like we are running from you. Until the last moment.”

  “Yes,” George said. “Good luck, General.”

  Meriwether touched the brim of his hat again. “Gentlemen. Ma’am.” Then he returned to his men.

  In minutes the two forces were underway. Behind them, the riverbank was strewn with every non-essential item, from pots and sleeping rolls to artillery and wagons. Every available horse was repurposed to carry men, ammunition, or both. Meriwether disbanded with columns and formations, allowing his men to move where the land was easiest to cross.

  Sergeants pushed the step up to quick time, then faster. As men began to flag, they traded spots with men on horseback. It was a maddeningly slow pace by whistler standards, but George knew it was as fast as these men could travel.

  The bluecoats pushed the pace for hours while the sun slipped downward from the zenith. The great river of the plains slipped by silently on their right while the rising land on their left put on a multicolored jacket of autumn trees. Sunlight dodged around clouds made of shining silver and blinding white, and the air was moist, full of the scent of warm, decaying grass.

  It was evening when they saw the first signs of white in the waters of the Big Greasy, and Storm Arriving called a halt.

  “We are nearly there,” he said. “Dead Bull Creek is just around that rise. We must let them get ahead of us. This must look like a real raid.”

  Storm Arriving called Heron in Treetops and his brother. He pointed to an outcrop of stone along the far end of the ridge on their left.

  “Tell me when the bluecoats reach that point,” he said.

  With agonizing slowness, the bluecoats put distance between themselves and the soldiers of the People.

  George watched, trying to gauge the distance, trying to judge how close the bluecoats were to the end of the ridgeline. If they waited too long, the bluecoats would run within firing distance of the Spanish artillery. They looked like they were there already, perhaps past.

  “Surely they’ve reached the—”

  “No,” said Heron in Treetops’ brother. The two men were staring out at the bluecoats. “Still a ways to go.”

  Mouse Road rode up next to George. She reached out and they held hands as the minutes ticked by.

  “Ready,” Heron in Treetops said.

  “Remember, fire over their heads,” Storm Arriving shouted to his soldiers. “Go in loud. Whistler’s Return is our signal.”

  Heron in Treetops stood up and his brother did likewise, both men balancing on the backs of their whistlers.

  “Almost,” the brother said.

  “Now!”

  “We go!” Storm Arriving shouted.

  Whistlers skimmed over the land, devouring the distance to meet their mock quarry. On their right, the water grew choppy and George could see huge swirls of white sediment mixed with the muddy brown, like paint spilled by a titanic artist. The confluence of the Big Greasy and the White Water was up ahead.

  Soldiers began to whoop as they drew close, and it was clear they had judged the distance right. The ridge to their left dropped down past the outcrop and George spied the valley of Dead Bull Creek. Beyond, past the creek, the land rose up again into a headland that overlooked the river and all approaches below.

  Rifle shots popped and soldiers whooped as they bore down on the bluecoats. Whistlers sang out and then they were on them, everyone shouting and yelling and firing shots overhead.

  The moment of truth, George thought. Now we learn what kind of man you are, General.

  The bluecoats wheeled, knelt, and returned fire in retreating ranks, just as they had been trained to do. George winced as the volleys went off, but no man fell. Every shot missed its mark.

  George said a quick prayer of thanks and urged more speed from his walker. The whistlers cut to the left and slipped between the bluecoats and the headland. Storm Arriving sent his men into two sweeping arcs in front of the bluecoats, riding close to screen them from the aim of the Spanish guns.

  The mouth of Dead Bull Creek was nearly dry, and the two forces danced and jockeyed across it. Ahead, the riverbank narrowed as it ran up against the high ground, and ahead George saw the full throat of the White Water pouring its creamy, chalk-thick water into the Big Greasy. Looking up the valley, he saw something else.

  “Storm Arriving!” he shouted, pointing.

  The vale was filled. A wall of men—marines and Pereira’s troops alike—all rushing forward for the kill.

  The bluecoats were up against the headland now, below the reach of the artillery on the height. Storm Arriving gave a command to his drake and George heard the long, rising call that whistlers made when members long absent returned home to the herd. The call was taken up, each whistler singing it in turn. The signal given, as one they spun toward the vale.

  The bluecoats dashed the other way, heading upriver for the narrow path along the bank, while the whistlers and George’s walker headed into the teeth of the oncoming Iron Shirts. The Spaniards balked, surprised by their ally’s sudden rush, and then Storm Arriving swung them to the side to push upward, slicing between tree and branch, creating a switch-backed path up toward the high ground.

  “Ready the fire,” he shouted, and the soldier with the burning coals prepared the brazier. They had to disable the guns before the Spanish could reposition them to bear on the field beyond the narrow path. They pushed up the slope. Whistlers slipped on slick, fallen leaves but sharp toes dug into the soft earth and they climbed. George set his walker along a more oblique path, giving her a straighter line up the hillside, then turned her back to meet the whistlers where the hill leveled off. He could hear the Spaniards shouting as they wheeled the heavy artillery into new positions. Through the trees, George could see them.

  “Five guns,” he said, and then Storm Arriving shouted.

  “Arrows!”

  Five riders set arrows and rode up to the soldier with the brazier. One by one in quick order they touched their fuse to the embers and sped on.

  The Spanish did not hear them coming over the chaos of their own shouts and commands. The riders swooped in like a gust of wind, each man loosing his arrow, each shaft drawing a snake of smoke that linked bow and caisson. The riders curved away, the arrows sputtered, and the charges blew.

  Caissons, each filled with powder and ammunition, exploded in blasts of fire. Men, artillery, and several trees were obliterated in a blink. Shrapnel hissed across the hilltop and men and whistlers cried out.

  Storm Arriving pointed to Whistling Elk. “Bring our wounded,” he said, and then rode down the far side of the hill. Branches whipped at them as they plunged downslope, and George held up his arms, keeping low and praying his walker remembered her rider. They reached the bottom with a woof of expelled breath and began their run across the flat ground.

  Ahead, the White Water dug deep into the chalky hill, cutting a sheer cliff into its side. The White Cliffs rose a hundred feet
above the creamy torrent, their heights pockmarked by thousands of small black-mouthed burrows.

  Below, on the wide field that filled the space within the ghostly river’s curving arm, George saw once more the shards of his first life.

  The field was strewn with wreckage amid the low sagebrush. Giant ribs of metal jutted upward from the ground, the pale aluminum gleaming like dried bone. Scraps of cloth—remnants of the dirigible’s skin—hung from the spars, flapping in the wind that funneled down the river’s course. The wreck of the U.S. Abraham Lincoln, last aircraft of the United States Army, and George’s last command as a serving officer, lay scattered across a hundred yards and more, a broken skeleton of twisted metal and tattered cloth.

  Meriwether and his bluecoats wove through the wreckage, horses and men picking their way between the knife-sharp edges of torn aluminum and snapped steel. Behind them, just now emerging from the constricting riverside path, were the Spanish, each column four abreast, each rank straight. Their commanders moved their men in unwieldy groups like stevedores shifting cargo on a ship’s deck, while the bluecoats sped lithely past the obstacles, pouring across the broken field like water.

  On the height, new reports boomed as the fire ate through to new stores of ammunition and powder. The flames spread to the trees on the hilltop, and the sun dipped down below the clouds.

  The bluecoats met up with Storm Arriving, and their bugles’ quick notes called them back into company groups. Meriwether arranged them to either side, one half set on either flank, facing the wreckage and the Spanish beyond.

  On their side, the Spanish formed up as well. George sized up the two forces. The Spanish had three times the troops but only a quarter of the cavalry, and that was before he added in Storm Arriving and his soldiers.

  On this small patch of ground, hemmed in by river and hillside, impeded by hazards, the Spanish would not have room for their classical maneuvers of squares and columns. He played it out in his mind. It would be a dirty fight, a filthy, savage battle of men and beasts. They would not meet in great groups but in twos and threes. It would be barbaric, and many, many men would die.