Riker was surprised. “Sir? You want my men to go on a patrol?”
“Exactly! Your mission is to locate any Sioux camps in the vicinity and return with that information,” Leighton continued.
“I beg the general’s pardon,” Riker said. “I don’t feel a company of infantry would be particularly effective in such an undertaking.”
Leighton frowned. “Explain yourself, sir!”
It seemed so obvious to Riker that he was surprised an explanation was necessary. “Well, sir, the Sioux are mounted. That makes them faster and more maneuverable than my men. And going on foot would surely invite attack.”
“You are in the army to fight, are you not, Captain?” Leighton asked sarcastically. “And your soldiers too, correct?”
Riker’s face reddened with anger. “Yes, sir! Of course. But the majority of the men are raw recruits. Of the new men, none have even fired their rifles. They’ve only been through dry-firing exercises.”
“Your company is no different from the rest of the army,” Leighton said. “Lame excuses mean nothing, Captain.”
“I am not making excuses, sir,” Riker said. “I merely wish to point out that—”
Leighton cut him short. “The mission is necessary, Captain. We cannot send cavalry because their damned horses are blown. So we must send L Company. I fully realize that duties of infantry in the war against the Indians is to man garrisons and provide strong defensive points during active campaigning. But we must be versatile, Captain Riker.”
“Yes, sir,” Riker said.
Leighton turned his attention to the cavalry officers. “I want you to take particularly good care of your mounts. I’ll not tolerate more requirements for excessive resting of the animals.”
“I understand, sir,” the major said, feeling uncomfortable. “But after months in the stables with only parade ground exercise, one can’t expect much more.”
“Of course, Major,” the general said in a calmer tone. “No one is claiming negligence on your part.”
At that point, as far as Leighton was concerned, his part of the meeting was over. Other details to be brought up were beneath him and could easily be handled by his staff officers. The general abruptly withdrew and both the adjutant and quartermaster brought up administrative and logistical problems to be dealt with. When those matters were cleared up, the meeting was over.
Riker stepped outside, looking at his companions. “Get those horses of yours ready quickly,” he said with a half smile. “My men and I may require your sudden and timely appearance when the Sioux finally discover our presence stumbling around in the middle of their territory.”
The major didn’t laugh. “We’ll do our best, Charlie. The best of luck to you, old boy.”
“You’ll need it, Riker,” one of the captains said.
“Be prudent and try to avoid unnecessarily exposing yourself,” the other said.
“I would stick close to the river,” the major added. The trees are generally thick there.”
“Good advice. Except they will also offer excellent ambush positions for the Indians. But your thoughts are well appreciated,” Riker said. He saluted, then hurried off to find First Sergeant Robertson and get the company ready for the task ahead.
Chapter Two – Captain Charles Riker
Most of the folks in Summerport, Maine were not surprised when young Charlie Riker turned his back on his family’s seafaring traditions and chose to apply for admittance to the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York.
They realized it wasn’t because Charlie hated the sea. And he wasn’t rebelling against his father, but for all of his eighteen years, Charlie had always been one to go his own way. Not that he could have been considered peculiar; he just seemed to have his own ideas about how things should be done. One of the town wags had once said that if Charlie Riker were to construct a house, he’d do it by building the roof first, then complete the rest of the structure under it. “But,” he added, “it’d turn out to be a first-rate job.”
By the time Charlie was ready to attend the academy, his father—a retired ship’s master who had married late in life—didn’t bother to protest. After raising the boy and watching him grow, the old salt knew his son was the sort who would always chart his own course and damn the tides and the winds. Any effort to make the boy heave-to would be time-consuming and fruitless. If Charlie would go for a soldier rather than seek his fortunes on the high seas, that was the way it would be.
Thus, with the dubious blessings of his father, Cadet Charles Riker began his career at West Point in the fall of 1856.
Charlie, with a good sense of humor and a lot of enthusiasm for the difficult task ahead, moved quickly into the routine of the academy. Having a good attitude and a great deal of self-confidence, he took the hazing and discipline in stride, earning the respect of both his peers and superiors.
Many other plebes, some with fear in their eyes, were resentful and uncomfortable when braced into rigid positions of attention by upperclassmen. But Charlie took it all calmly. He endured bawlings out well, responding to them as if the episodes were somewhat harsh lessons rather than mistreatment. Like all the new cadets, he managed, bit by bit, to shape up until eventually he was well squared away into the shako, crossbelts, and gray uniform, presenting the picture of a well-trained, prepared cadet.
Charlie quickly became popular with his fellow cadets, and earned a particularly good reputation as a poker player. His dark, handsome countenance was without expression as he studied the cards and made his bets. This calmness and lack of expression made the bluffing part of the card game difficult for his opponents. Poker and history were his strong points, while mathematics and the sciences sorely tried his classroom efforts. Sometimes his marks slipped so low while he struggled with the exactness and logic of such a curriculum that he required extra tutoring. But Cadet Riker always put forth the extra effort when necessary to pass the courses.
Athletics was another area where Charlie did well. He quickly earned a place as pitcher on the baseball nine, and became the fencing master’s pet as he acquired skill with saber and foil. But where he really attracted attention was in the equestrian classes, although not all of the attention was admiring. He had never ridden much before coming to the academy, and he made up for this lack of experience with boldness and a display of recklessness that dismayed the instructors and other cadets. If thrown and bruised, Charlie would brush the dirt from his britches and jump back into the saddle, daring the horse “to do that again, old fellow!”
The horse usually did.
With his inept horsemanship, poor marks in mathematics, and an unusual number of pranks, Charlie walked off plenty of demerits that he himself admitted he richly deserved. Cadets could rid their records of bad conduct marks by marching back and forth on the barracks square in the evenings after duty hours. Because Charlie wore out a lot of shoe leather in this way, he didn’t make much rank in his first two years at West Point. He began as a cadet private and held that rank right up to the end of his term as a third classman. At that point, his superiors decided Charlie needed some toning down. They decided a bit of responsibility might make him a bit more serious. When he returned from furlough in September of 1858, Charlie found orders posted that appointed him to the rank of cadet corporal.
The insignia of that office was a single chevron worn on the tunic below the elbow. When the corporal became a sergeant, the chevron was moved to the upper arm. The first time Charlie put on his cadet gray with the chevron sewn firmly in place, he changed. It was not a feeling of power that moved him, nor was it a sense of superiority over the lower rankers. Instead, it was a sense of responsibility not only to those above him but to the other cadets who served in his squad.
Charlie, like most people with a natural good humor, also had a temper. When his patience finally gave way, a flash of anger would erupt like a cannon shot and the objects of his wrath had no doubt they had run afoul of him. But this generally didn�
��t happen unless Charlie thought one of his subordinates was careless or didn’t give a damn. A few sharp words from Cadet Corporal Riker and the offender was more than ready to mend his ways.
If someone was genuinely trying, however, Charlie was there to lend a helping hand. A particularly clumsy plebe had been assigned to Charlie’s squad at the beginning of the year. The cadet, a brainy fellow named Dickerson, had a terrible time at drill. Charlie gave him extra instruction in the intricacies of facing movements and keeping in step. One area Dickerson was especially lacking in was the manual of arms. His head bobbed, he didn’t slap his musket in the movements, and his execution was far from sharp and military.
Dickerson was finally noticed by a cadet captain during a parade. He was so sloppy that it was thought the clumsy fellow was simply fooling around rather than trying. The inept marcher was given enough demerits to warrant eight hours to walk them off.
Cadet Corporal Charles Riker thought this unfair. In his own mind, it was his fault that Dickerson had not mastered the intricacies of West Point drill. If he had put in more time at special instruction, perhaps the clumsy cadet would not have gotten himself in trouble. Therefore, Charlie turned himself in and insisted that walking off the demerits was his responsibility. Dickerson was released from punishment and Charlie took his place, pacing back and forth with a musket on his shoulder in the cold evenings.
After walking the tour, Charlie was promoted to cadet sergeant. The reason given was that he had impressed his superiors with his show of leadership initiative and a willingness to take responsibility for those under his command. These were the traits he was never to lose.
Now he could move the chevron to the top of his sleeve.
Charlie was advanced one more time during his cadet days. That final promotion made him a cadet lieutenant. Now he sported two chevrons. This, and the posting as a company first lieutenant, was the highest he was to rise during his time at West Point. He continued to struggle with the sciences while excelling in athletics and pranks. His fencing improved to the point that he was regularly beating his instructor. His pitching also sharpened up quite a bit, and he kept opponents pinned down to numerous scoreless innings. Being thrown from horseback also remained a habit, and he finished equestrian activities dusty and bruised, though undaunted.
Toward the end of the fourth year, all cadets made their final choices of the branch in which they wished to be commissioned. The brainier types chose the corps of engineers. In a young nation with lots of building to do, this was considered an elite unit in which to serve. Those not quite so smart, but still with plenty of mathematical savvy, went into the artillery. Shooting the big guns required a knowledge of trigonometry and the use of angles to compute the correct combination of barrel angles and powder charges necessary for the accurate firing of cannon.
Charlie Riker’s achievements in math and science did not leave him qualified for those branches of service. That was fine with Charlie. The last thing he wanted to do was spend thirty or forty years working with figures. He wanted action, and plenty of it. So he listed as his first choice the cavalry.
Unfortunately, his poor marks brought him down low in the class standings. By the time his name came up, all the openings for second lieutenant of cavalry had been filled. A few of the more humorous folks at West Point said that the situation was actually to Charlie Riker’s benefit. The fact that he wouldn’t be riding horses would save him countless broken bones and the government hundreds of animals over the period of his military career. Charlie, upon hearing the joke, grinned ruefully and accepted his lieutenancy of infantry.
In the fall of 1860, after a summer spent at home in Maine, the young shavetail reported to Fort Snelling, Minnesota to begin his army service. Charlie was less than happy with the assignment. As he said to his old charge Dickerson when he left West Point, “Fort Snelling is too far east for any real Indian fighting and too far west to offer an exciting social life.”
He was correct about the former but mistaken in the latter. The nearby city of Saint Paul offered a social life of sorts. Even though it wasn’t as fancy or up-to-date as New York or Washington, Lieutenant Charles Riker found his own stimulation among the large town’s gentry.
This occurred at a party in the home of one of the local well-to-dos. A blanket invitation had been issued for the attendance of Fort Snelling officers. Charlie, without much to do, accepted and went into the city. The soiree was a dinner dance held in the spacious backyard of a socialite couple who hoped their daughter might meet an eligible suitor. Charlie didn’t take much notice of that particular young lady, but one did catch his eye. This was Miss Lurene Mills.
Lurene was the daughter of Silas Mills, a transplanted New Englander who had become quite a successful merchant in Saint Paul. She was a short, attractive young woman of eighteen years with light brown hair and green eyes. A graceful dancer, she possessed the great feminine talent of being able to flirt without appearing to do so. Charlie started the courtship the way he rode horses—immediately, boldly, and without hesitation. He saw to it that his name went on her dance list within a minute of being introduced to her. After that he continued to stay in her presence to the point that the other young men dancing with her began to think that quite possibly he was the one who had brought her. That was fine with Charlie.
During one of the waltzes, which Charlie had claimed as his own, Lurene’s budding womanly instincts caused her to realize the handsome young officer had taken more than just a casual interest in her. And that same feminine insight made her want to tease him a bit.
“My, Mr. Riker,” she said demurely. “You seem to be extraordinarily fond of dancing.”
Charlie, whose nimble feet made him rather good at it, smiled. “Yes, indeed, Miss Mills. But I confess your company increased my pleasure in the pastime.”
“I believe you are a flatterer, sir,” Lurene said.
“Only when it is deserved, Miss Mills,” Charlie replied.
After that dance Charlie offered to fetch her some punch. But Lurene, with some previous coaching from an older girl in mind, decided to let this particular fish run with the line a bit. “I’m afraid not now, Mr. Riker. Perhaps later.” Then she added, “And there are other names on my dance card, sir.” With that, she returned to her crowd of friends.
Feeling a bit chastened and downcast, Charlie went over to the punch bowl for his own benefit. While he was ladling a cupful, one of the local blades walked up beside him. He introduced himself with a surly “The name is Sims. Banking is my business.”
Charlie, in full dress Uniform, smiled at him. “Riker here. I suppose my profession is obvious.”
Sims sneered. “Yes it is, Riker. And so is your unwarranted and uninvited interest in Miss Mills.”
“Unwarranted, sir?” Charlie stated. He felt a hot flash of anger, but fought it down enough to control his emotions. “You speak as if I am beneath the rest of the assemblage somehow.”
Sims, not wanting any trouble, backed down a bit. “Perhaps I should emphasize uninvited, Riker.”
Charlie continued to smile. “When speaking to me, you will employ the respectful title of ‘sir.’”
Sims hesitated. After all, this was probably a barracks bully. He felt like a member of the Roman senate speaking to a common centurion. Care had to be exercised, or there was every possibility of violence. “Very well, sir. We of Saint Paul are by nature a closed society. We do not welcome outsiders.”
“Pardon me, Sims,” Charlie said. “I would love to stand here and listen to your prattle, but I believe I have the next dance with Miss Mills.”
Charlie claimed that dance, and even the last one of the evening. It was a Saturday and the young officer wanted very much to see the young lady again—soon. “May I have the honor of accompanying you to church tomorrow, Miss Mills?” he asked.
“Why thank you, Mr. Riker,” Lurene replied. “But I always attend services with my parents.” She smiled. “Perhaps we shall see you ther
e.”
“I believe you will,” Charlie said. The music came to a halt and he walked her back to her friends. Before he left, he asked, “And what is your religious preference, Miss Mills?”
“Beg pardon?” she said.
“Which church do you attend?”
Lurene suppressed a laugh. “You have no particular one yourself, Mr. Riker?”
“At this point and time in my life, any will do,” Charlie said.
“I belong to the First Methodist,” Lurene said. “Services are at ten o’clock.”
Thank you, Miss Mills,” Charlie said, bowing. “Until tomorrow at the First Methodist.”
An hour early on that next morning, Second Lieutenant Charles Thomas Riker was standing tall by the front steps of the church. He waited patiently, nodding to other arrivals as they looked curiously at the unknown young officer loitering in front of their place of worship. When the Mills carriage arrived, Charlie performed in his usual manner. He walked rapidly up to the curb, smiling a happy greeting to the occupants.
“Good morning, Miss Mills,” he said to her. “So very nice to see you.”
“Good morning, Mr. Riker,” Lurene replied as he helped her out of the vehicle. She introduced him to her parents when they stepped down to the curb.
Mrs. Mills, like most women, thought the young man quite attractive. But she had already heard about him the evening before when Lurene came home from the party. Mr. Silas Mills, on the other hand, was not particularly impressed. He indicated Charlie’s shoulder straps with a curt nod of his head. “Don’t those mean something about your title?”
“They indicate I am a second lieutenant of infantry, sir,” Charlie replied.
“Then shouldn’t we call you ‘lieutenant’?”
“No, sir. It’s quite proper to address an officer as you would a civilian gentleman,” Charlie said.
Silas Mills, an austere and severe member of the merchant class, considered all soldiers—officers included—barely a step or two above the status of homeless tramps. “Well, Mister Riker, shall we go in?”
Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4) Page 2
