The Ohio was behind them, the last major river save one. Back on his own familiar whistler, George guided them along the backroads of the Kentuckee countryside.
Now they were in the arenas of war that George knew so well. Madisonville, Bowling Green, Munfordsville, Logan’s Cross Roads; all passed by in the distant darkness as the war party climbed up from the mint-laden fields of Pennyrile onto the slopes of the Cumberland Plateau.
But as dawn began to light the sky that showed through the trees and the steep, sharp-ridged cleft in which they stopped for their rest, George could think of one thing only.
They had been seen.
“They have been seen.”
“What?” said Custer. “Where?”
Jacob smiled and waggled the sheet of paper. “Kentuckee,” he said. “Meriwether sent bulletins to every rail post in five hundred miles. They were seen at the bridge between Evansville and Henderson. His forces are tracking them across the backlands now.”
“Kentuckee.” Custer stepped up to the table and began leafing through the maps that covered it. “Last we heard was Illinois. What are they doing in Kentuckee?” He found the map he sought. Pulling it from the pile, he laid it on top of the others. “Kentuckee.” He scratched his head.
Jacob leaned over from the other side. He pointed to the western portion of the state and drew a line across it to the east. “There aren’t any railroad lines that cross the state lengthwise. They’ll have to use the roads if they want to move east.”
“What makes you think they’re heading east?”
Jacob pawed through the stacks and pulled out a large-scale map of the nation. He stepped around to the end of the table and spread it out. “Just look at the whole of it,” the secretary said. He inscribed a line with his fingertip. “From deep within the territories they went into Yankton, then to Illinois, then Indiana, and now they’re in Kentuckee. They’re heading east.”
“More south than east, it seems,” Custer said.
“Autie. You’re being obtuse. What is there for them in the south but what they’ve already passed by?”
“I’d ask you the same question. What is there in the east that they’ve not already seen?”
Jacob extended his line through Kentuckee and into Virginia. He stopped at the Potomac and Washington.
“You,” he said. “You are in the east.”
“Me?” Custer laughed but it sounded hollow, even to his own ears. He took a step back from the table. “What could they want with me?”
“What else?” Jacob said with a shrug. “Revenge.”
“That’s absurd.”
“It’s not and you know it. Why else would they invade us with such a force? Why else would they sneak through our backroads, hiding from us at every opportunity?”
“Perhaps,” said a third voice, “it is because they did not care overmuch for their last meeting with us.”
Custer turned in annoyance. “Don’t fence, Samuel. Say what you mean.”
The thin man turned from the window where he had spent the last hours gazing out at the growing light. To Custer he seemed the owner of every bit of his sixty-odd years.
“I only mean to say that they might easily have come to expect a violent greeting from us and our kind. Avoiding direct contact with the locals would only be a prudent course of action.”
“What?” Custer said with a laugh. “Do you think we are planning to shoot them on sight?”
“What else do you think the everyday corn farmer would do? What do you think Meriwether’s men will do when they meet up with them?”
Custer turned to Jacob. The plump secretary seemed once more at a loss.
“They’re an invading enemy force,” he said. “They will deal with them accordingly.”
“And open fire upon them,” Samuel pressed.
“Yes.”
“Regardless of their actual purpose in coming here.”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean—”
Custer stepped into the argument. “Samuel, they are coming to assassinate me.”
“Or to bring you back your son.”
Custer felt as if the air had gone out of the room. It had not occurred to him. From the look on the face of his Secretary of War, it hadn’t occurred to Jacob either. “An offering of peace?”
“To be given to you and no other,” Samuel said.
“Or it could be as we thought,” said Jacob. “An attempt on your life.”
“Which is the more likely?”
Samuel’s calm monotone irritated Custer. “Frankly,” he said, “it’s a hell of a lot more likely that they’re out for my blood.”
“I should say so,” Jacob said, and then apologized with a weak smile.
“And the risk?”
Custer growled at Samuel and set to pacing the length of the table. He walked back and forth past the ranks of maps and notations, back and forth between Jacob and Samuel, his evaluation of the situation vacillating with each turn.
Finally he stopped. “Talk to Meriwether,” he said to Jacob. “Have him rescind the attack orders.”
“But they’re in the field.”
“They’re in Kentuckee, not Tangiers for heaven’s sake.”
“But they’re already in motion. We may not find them in time.”
“Then quit wasting time here. Jacob, just do this. Rescind the attack, but find them just the same. We can mount a defense at the Potomac if needs be. Even a thousand Indians can’t break through to me if we’ve got our artillery pointed down their throats at the bridges. They’ll come in from Arlington, most likely. That’s the main rail line. But have Meriwether set up at Georgetown as well. Now go.”
Jacob, flustered, saluted out of long habit, and left the room.
“Samuel, please take whatever precautions you wish around the house.”
“I’m sure Secretary Greene would rather you were on a train to New York.”
Custer laughed. “Perhaps, but we won’t go that far. But do see that Libbie and the girls are safe. I want them in town if it’s good news, but not in this house, just in case it isn’t.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” he said and walked to the door.
“Samuel.”
Custer’s aide stopped, his hand still on the knob. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Samuel.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The door closed and he was alone. He sat down and pulled the map of his nation close. From Kentuckee he traced a path up through the Cumberland Gap, across the Allegheny Mountains, and past the farms and towns of central Virginia.
“Are you with them, Son?” He tapped the twisted line of the Potomac. “ Are you?”
“To’e. To’e!” George helped to wake the men. “To’e. Nóheto.” He knew how little sleep they had had in the past three days—he was feeling the lack himself, and even the whistlers were beginning to complain. Now, however, was not the time for compassion. He stopped for a moment and listened for any sound from the woods. The rain had passed over and now the forest was coming alive with the calls of birds. There was no sound out of the ordinary, but that did not comfort him. The scouts had said that bluecoats were coming and every moment he expected to see soldiers in Kersey blue coats appear from between the dark-boled trees.
“To’e, nóheto. Hurry up, now.”
Within minutes they were up and on their way. The tiny town of Cumberland Ford lay down in the valley behind them, hidden by dense spruce and rugged land. A few miles ahead was Tazewell and a quick turn through the eastern tip of Tennessee. Between the two was the famed Cumberland Gap and George wanted little more than to see it from the other side.
They guided their beasts up the steep slopes. There was not much undergrowth beneath the heavy canopy, but the whistlers were creatures of the open plains and tired more quickly in the mountainous terrain. Many of the riders switched to their war mounts so as to rest their riding mounts. The walkers were especially affected. They found the climbing much more str
enuous than coursing across the prairie, and the entire war party was slowed as the larger beasts pushed step by step up the incline.
George led them back down to the roadway. On the uphill side of the gap, any Army cavalrymen would have a slight edge in speed, but once headed downhill the whistlers and walkers would own the clear advantage.
They heard the first shot when they were near the crest of the pass. George heard the bullet snap through the leaves and branches. Another shot slashed overhead and torn greenery fell from above. The chiefs called for speed and somehow the animals gave it. They passed up the final slope. George could see past it and to the lands beyond. Through the trees he could see down the Allegheny slopes and all the way across the valley that separated them from the cool distances of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
A third shot urged them on. The last rise gave way and the mass of riders flowed over the crest and down the other side like a river. When gunfire blasted out before them, George realized the magnitude of his error. Smoke belched from behind every tree along the slopes that flanked the road. Warriors and mounts fell in the neck of the gantlet, trapped in the crossfire.
Quicker than orders could have been given, the Indians abandoned the roadway. They dispersed to either side. Weapons appeared—bows, lances, clubs—and George cried out.
“No killing!”
But his words, even had they been understood, could not have stopped them. With whoops and shouts of fury they scattered into the trees and climbed up to the Army positions. The gunfire was sporadic as men now fired not to slay a foe but to save themselves.
“No killing!” he shouted again, uselessly. “Keep moving. They have no horses. We can outrun them. Nóheto! Nóheto!”
The woods were filled with gunshots. The Indian warriors met the danger head-on as they engaged their foe. They struck with clubs and bows, blades and lances. They struck to kill, and did so with bloody efficiency. George felt his rage rise, but could not blame them for defending themselves against the ambush.
The rear of the column came up behind him and he was swept forward by the current of the battle. His whistler chose the path through the forest. Limbs swung past forcing him down along its back. Then in front of him he saw an officer, his pistol raised and aimed. The man’s jaw dropped open as he saw his target clearly.
“Get out of the way, damn you!” The whistler bore down on the man. The officer stepped back against the trunk of a tree and George was past him.
“Nóheto!”
More gunfire, and more men cried out. Whistlers carved the air with their screams.
“Nóheto!”
Soldiers fell back in disarray. Warriors sped through the battleground and headed downslope. George stopped his mount on the mountain path. A warrior on walker-back commanded the roadway, shouting in defiance as bullets zipped through the trees around him. Bowmen on whistlers took aim and let fly in among the trees. George shouted and the men turned.
“Nóheto!” he shouted and waved at the melee that flourished in the woods. “We’ve got to leave, now!”
The meaning was understood. The warrior spoke to his walker. “Ótahe! Hó’ésta!” The beast took a breath and roared. Three long blasts from its immense lungs sent Army soldiers scurrying and brought the Indian warriors pouring from the forest.
“Let’s go!”
The survivors left the field. One look back showed George the damage and loss. The road was clogged with heavy bodies. Whistlers thrashed and paled grey and green in their distress. A rogue walker stormed the forest chasing terrified soldiers, taking bullet after bullet and not stopping, and beneath the trees lay the bodies of men in buckskin and men in blue, the dead and dying left behind.
George smelled gunsmoke and tasted blood. He kicked his mount. “Nóheto!”
They ran down the rutted roadway. Their numbers grew with each step as warriors and loose whistlers rejoined the flock, but they had lost many. George tried to gauge their losses but could not. He looked for Storm Arriving and found him.
“How bad?” he asked.
“Bad,” the Indian said. “Perhaps a fourth of our forces, and many of the bluecoats killed as well.” He frowned and took a heavy breath. “I am sorry we killed them, One Who Flies. I know you did not wish it, but it did not keep them from killing us, did it?”
“No,” George said. “You must believe me, though. Killing them does not make it any easier for us.”
“Perhaps,” Storm Arriving said. “But it is too late for that argument now.”
George looked around. “Have you seen Laughs like a Woman?”
Storm Arriving’s face grew even harder. “No. I have not seen him.”
George disliked the answer as much as Storm Arriving. He looked around again, trying to spy the former Contrary. The war party was stretched out a quarter mile along the twisting forest path. Above them the sunset painted the bellies of the clouds.
“He is with us,” George said. “Look at the sky. The thunder beings would have told us if he’d fallen.”
Storm Arriving glanced upward. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps.”
They rode down the mountainside like three hundred demons possessed of a terrible determination. George hoped no one got in their way. He did not think that they would survive.
Speaks While Leaving wept.
“I do not know,” she cried. “I do not know.”
Her mother shooed away the neighbors from the door. “Go now. You heard her. She does not know.”
Speaks While Leaving pressed her fists to her eyes. Tears stung with their sorrow. The memory of the vision ran once more across her mind and she was transfixed by the image of the fallen. Her mouth opened in silent anguish and her lungs refused to breathe. She could only shed her tears and gasp between each paroxysm of grief.
It was deep at night when Custer was awakened. He rubbed at raw eyes and reread the message.
Samuel said nothing, nor did he gloat. His eyes showed only sadness, and then he turned and left the room.
Custer crushed the paper in his hand. He bared his teeth and shut his eyes so tightly they hurt. Anger and frustration wracked him and twisted his soul. “Damn you,” he said to everything, to the world at large. “Damn you to perdition and hellfire.”
Chapter 14
Monday, May 31st, AD 1886
Prince William County, Virginia
Laughs like a Woman caught up to them during the night along with several others from the battle. He was riding a dead man’s whistler and his arm was bloody and bound. George was glad to see him, but no man’s relief could match that of Storm Arriving. He and his friend held each other close for a long time.
They rode on through daybreak and finally stopped in a small wilderness near Bristow Station. The men needed rest, and the whistlers needed to forage before they continued on to the city.
But should we, George wondered.
“They know we are here,” he said as the circle of chiefs gathered at their resting place. “And I daresay they know where we are going. After all, they may be vé’hó’e, but they are not idiots.” He sighed. “So the question is this: should we continue?”
Storm Arriving passed along his words and the chiefs discussed the issue.
George fretted. They were such a short distance from their goal—less than fifty miles—and yet they now had arrayed before them not just the last physical obstacle, the Potomac, but also the military power of the United States Army. If the chiefs opted to continue, how would they avert that threat? After all, it wouldn’t just be a thousand rifles they faced; it would be Gatling guns and artillery. It was one thing to run past such weaponry before the gunners knew the party was there, but to ride into them when they were ready and primed to fire…well, George thought, we’d lose everything in the first cannonade.
“One Who Flies.”
George realized he had not been paying attention to the discussion he himself had begun. The chiefs waited patiently for him to rejoin the conversation.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
Storm Arriving started again.
“One Bear says the bluecoats may know that we are coming, but they do not know that you are coming.”
George blinked. “That is right. They don’t know.”
“Would that make a difference?”
He smiled. “All the difference in the world. I’ve been thinking like a soldier when I should have been thinking like a hostage. We can take the guns right out of their hands.”
“So One Bear now puts the question to you. Should we continue?”
“Why not?” George asked. “They’re going to do everything but open the doors for us.”
He laid his new idea out for them. They listened, and one by one he saw comprehension light their faces. When he had finished and all the details were understood, Two Roads called for his pipe.
The chief of the Kit Fox soldiers filled his pipe, struck fire to tinder and lit the tobacco in the bowl. Then, after the proper offerings to the spirits that were with them always, the pipe was passed from man to man. George took his turn when it came to him, and enjoyed the tang of the thick smoke. He passed it on to Storm Arriving, and saw in his friend’s eyes a different regard. There was no name that George could put to it—the steadiness of his look, the set of his jaw, perhaps—but there was a difference. As he looked around the silent circle, he saw that many of the others, too, viewed him differently. He felt a sense of approbation in their consideration. It made him feel…respected.
When the pipe returned to Two Roads and was put away, they all rose and went on toward their duties and tasks, as well as some needed rest. George, however, had other things to do.
“I want you with me,” he said. “But I want us to make an impression. Can I go in on a walker?”
“There are a few that lost their riders. We can see if one will carry you. Be careful, though. Walker-back is different.”
“We won’t be going far.”
They checked in on Laughs like a Woman before they left. When they found him he was swinging a cavalry saber he had picked up off the battleground. He flailed it at a stout tree limb and George winced at the mistreatment of such a fine weapon.
The Year the Cloud Fell Page 29
