Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  The men purchased shoe polish, razors, soap, soap cups, combs, hair brushes, shoe brushes, sewing kits, metal polish, and other items already laid out for them.

  “I don’t need no toothbrush or comb or nothing,” George Hammer said. “I brung my own.”

  Duncan walked up close to him. “You’ll buy new ones here—now—today.”

  “But I don’t want to spend the money,” George protested.

  Duncan grabbed him by the front of his newly issued tunic and shook him so hard that George’s kepi fell off. “I said you’ll buy ’em here!”

  “The prices is too high,” George insisted. “We can get ’em cheaper—”

  Duncan slapped him hard with an open hand. “Don’t you ever, ever, ever argue with a sergeant! Particular yours truly!”

  “Yes, sir,” George said.

  “And don’t call me ‘sir’! Duncan growled. “My parents was married. Only officers is called ‘sir’. You call me ‘sergeant,’ understood?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  They went from the sutler back to the barracks, where the newly purchased items were deposited in the locker boxes with the uniforms. “Take out your other pair o’ trousers,” Duncan ordered. “We’re going down to the post tailor to see if the poor man can do something with the fit.”

  It took them the rest of the day to have blouses and trousers cut and resewn to fit better. The man doing this, though a soldier, also charged for his services. He began by making a few suggestions about trading around a bit more for better fit. Then he set to work. He was fast and professional, having had plenty of experience with the cut and style of uniforms. When he’d finished, the recruits had to admit they looked a lot better.

  Another meal of mush and coffee ended the day’s activities, and they were once again in the barracks for the evening. They all followed O’Malley’s example by using their new overcoats as blankets as they lay down on the dirty mattresses. The recruits were able to strip down to underwear and socks and spend a more comfortable night.

  The following morning put them under the full, unrelenting weight of Sergeant Duncan’s tyranny as he introduced them to the mysteries of the drill. O’Malley, already an expert, acted as an assistant instructor as the men began the lesson by learning to stand properly in the positions of attention and parade rest. Facing movements followed this, and each mistake made was brutally corrected with curses, punches, and kicks.

  By the time they progressed to actual marching, Tommy and the others had large bruises on the backs of their calves and thighs where Duncan had kicked them hard. Now really scared, they progressed to learning column and flanking maneuvers.

  Drill was interrupted only by work details in the kitchen or cleanup of the garrison. Another break in the activities and bullying came when the same officer who had sworn them in read the Articles of War to the new men. These rules—all one hundred and twenty-eight of them—were the basis for army law and regulations. Crimes and the punishments thereof were clearly listed there so that even the densest soldier understood what was expected of him.

  That first day of drill was the beginning of a routine they were to follow. The only difference was that Duncan was able to drill them with less bullying as their proficiency in the movements continued to improve.

  After three weeks, they were good enough at drill to be assigned to a regular recruit company. Tommy and his friends began to feel more like soldiers then. The drill continued to grow easier for them, although they still got a few kicks and punches when they forgot recently learned lessons.

  They were even allowed a few hours in town. Tommy, thinking he was impressing all the civilians, swaggered around the streets of Columbus under the impression that everyone—particularly the girls—were giving him admiring glances. This attitude was dashed somewhat when some local boys suddenly chanted at him and his friends:

  “Soldier, soldier, will you work?”

  “No, sir! No, sir! I’ll sell my shirt!”

  Charlie O’Malley and some of the older men got drunk and visited a brothel. Tommy and George Hammer were too timid to go that far, so they contented themselves with simply walking around the town and taking in the sights. The next day, the two youngsters were fresh and enthusiastic while Charlie suffered from the effects of having been totally intoxicated.

  The routine in the barracks now included teasing the new men arriving daily in civilian clothing. They jeered them with pleasure, making sure the newcomers understood the lowly positions they occupied in the military hierarchy.

  By the time Tommy and the others became aware of the open secret that Duncan and the other depot noncommissioned officers were getting fees from the sutler and post tailor, they were cynical enough not to be surprised.

  Finally, some weeks after they had arrived at Columbus Barracks, orders sent the older recruits out in levees to the active regiments.

  Tommy and his group found they were slated for an infantry outfit stationed at Fort Keogh in Montana Territory.

  Chapter Five – The First Day

  Trumpeter Uziel Melech stood with his bugle in front of the large tent occupied by Captain Riker and Lieutenant Worthington. The two officers, in deep conference with First Sergeant Robertson, bent over a map as they decided on the exact route to be followed during the patrol.

  Melech, called Mournful Melech by the other men of the company, was a sad-looking individual. Short, dark, and thin, he had stoop shoulders and did not look particularly martial. One of the more literate men, a private named Harold Devlin, said that Melech reminded him of how Ichabod Crane of Washington Irving’s story Sleepy Hollow must look. No one knew the taciturn Melech’s background except that he was a Jew and his accent showed he was not a native-born American.

  His musical ability was so good that the regimental band’s principal musician had tried to induce him to transfer into his unit, but Melech refused. That added to his reputation as being somewhat weird. What man in his right mind would remain as a bugler with a line company when he could easily go into a much softer life at higher pay in a headquarters unit?

  With no friends and showing little inclination to have any, Trumpeter Uziel Melech was left to himself. Whatever the man’s background, everyone—officers included—surmised it must have been filled with grief and trouble.

  L Company’s camp, formerly made up of neat rows of the dog tents, had completely disappeared. Only the flattened grass and the newly formed paths showed evidence that soldiers had once occupied the area. Now the men, their excess gear in the supply wagon, lounged about the area, ready to don their light marching equipment of blanket roll and haversack when given the word. The early morning sun was pleasantly warm and it was nice to loll about with nothing particular to do. They passed the time dozing or lethargically watching the activities of the cavalrymen tending to their horses.

  The officers and first sergeant finally stepped from the tent. Worthington, the company’s lieutenant, laughed. “Well, at least we shouldn’t get lost, should we?”

  “I would say we’re safe in regard to knowing our location at all times,” Riker agreed.

  “Following the trees on the riverbank is not only safer, it makes more sense in a lot of ways,” Robertson said.

  Mournful Melech came to attention and waited for his instructions.

  “Sound Assembly,” Robertson ordered. The little trumpeter quickly obeyed.

  Sergeants Donahue and McCarey, standing off to one side of the waiting men, barked at their corporals. Those junior noncommissioned officers leaped into action, yelling at their charges and forming them up into an orderly, two-row formation for each section. Only after that had been completed did the sergeants deign to join the troops.

  First Sergeant Robertson marched to a spot in front of the company. “Section leaders, report!” he barked.

  “First Section all present ’n’ accounted for!” Sergeant McCarey reported.

  “Second Section all present ’n’ accounted for!” Sergeant Don
ahue yelled.

  Robertson performed a faultless, snappy about-face and waited for Captain Riker to appear. When the officer strode up to a spot in front of him, the sergeant saluted. “Sir! L Comp’ny all present ’n’ accounted for!”

  “Take your post, Sergeant,” Captain Charles Riker said.

  Robertson saluted again, then marched to the rear of the formation where Lieutenant Worthington stood, “Right, face!” Riker commanded. “Right shoulder, arms! For’d, march!”

  L Company paraded out of their former bivouac area and marched sharply past the tents of the cavalry squadron. They continued on to the horse picket line where the troopers were grooming their mounts. The cavalrymen stopped their work to shout at the foot soldiers in the time-honored tradition of the army.

  “Ho! There they go! The walking marvels!”

  “The doughboys are on the march!”

  “Look at the shoe leather burn!”

  But an Irish horse soldier, watching the small parade go by, summed it up best by muttering to himself, “Sure, and it’s the poor bluddy infantry.”

  The column continued on its way out into the open country. Finally, after traveling far enough to be out of sight of the camp, Riker ordered, “Sling arms! Route step, march!”

  The men relaxed a bit and slung their rifles over their shoulders, breaking step and settling in for the foot soldier’s main job—putting one government-issue shoe after the other as the first mile slowly slipped beneath them.

  The first stint of marching was for forty-five minutes. At that point, Riker ordered a fifteen-minute halt. The men took advantage of this to make whatever adjustments they wanted to on their equipment. But after being out in the field for a month, most had already become expert at the cross-country movements.

  Charlie Riker and Lieutenant Fred Worthington stood together and watched as First Sergeant Robertson went to each of the men to make sure there were no physical problems to deal with. If so, the affected man would have to return to the main camp. In Indian campaigning, a physically disabled soldier would be at a grim disadvantage.

  “He’s a fine NCO,” Worthington said absentmindedly. “Indeed,” Riker agreed. “He’s a bit quick on corporal punishment, but I hesitate to interfere with his running of the company.”

  Worthington shrugged. “It’s good for those fellows. The common lot needs to be slapped down hard in order to keep them effective. Leave them alone and they’re nothing but a mob.”

  “You haven’t a very high opinion of enlisted men, do you, Fred?” Riker asked.

  “Not really,” Worthington admitted. “No private has proven himself until he’s earned some chevrons. And even some of the noncoms have to be kept up to snuff.” He quickly added, “Except those like Sergeant Robertson, of course.”

  “Of course,” Riker said. He didn’t like Fred Worthington very much. For his own part, the captain had often wondered what it would be like to serve in the enlisted ranks. His cadet days gave a hint of sorts, but no member of the corps was ever bucked-and-gagged or beaten to a pulp by a noncommissioned officer. “Perhaps the army should require a bit more of recruits,” he said thoughtfully.

  Worthington laughed. “And only pay them thirteen dollars a month, Charlie? We’re lucky to get what we do. And it takes strong sergeants like Robertson to make them toe the line.”

  “Perhaps,” Riker said.

  Robertson strode rapidly from the column over to the officers. He saluted. “Sir, the men are in fine fettle. We can keep ’em all.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Robertson,” Riker said. He checked his pocket watch. “Form ’em up, Sergeant. And put out flankers.”

  “Yes, sir!” Robertson replied. He turned back toward the men, bellowing loudly, “On your feet and fall in! Sergeant McCarey! One squad for flankers!”

  “Yes, Sergeant!” McCarey replied. “Corp’ral Schreiner! Put out flankers!”

  “Yes, Sergeant!” Schreiner barked. “Baker, Larson, Mulligan, Sweeney, O’Brien! On the right flank! Saxon, Devlin, O’Malley, Hammer! On the left flank! Move out!”

  Riker watched the company quickly form up under the prodding of the sergeants and corporals. He looked at Worthington. “Care to take the point, Fred?” Worthington smiled and saluted. “My pleasure, sir.” He waved at Robertson. “Give me a couple of men for the point, Sergeant!”

  “Yes, sir!” Robertson replied. “Sergeant Donahue! Two men for the point!”

  “Yes, Sergeant!” Donahue said. He turned. “Corp’ral Marteau! Two men for the point! Report to Lieutenant Worthington!”

  “Yes, Sergeant! Carpenter! Asztalos! Report to the lieutenant on the point!”

  L Company was formed up with the flankers and point men in their proper positions. All this was accomplished in less than a minute as orders and instructions were properly passed down the chain of command.

  When Robertson noted that everyone was in readiness, including Lieutenant Worthington and the two men up ahead, he turned and saluted Riker. “The comp’ny is ready, sir!”

  Normally the first sergeant would give the order to move out, but with Worthington out in front it would have been improper for him to issue such an order to an officer. Such protocol was very important to the first sergeant. Therefore it was Riker who bellowed, “Sling arms! Route step, march!”

  Tommy Saxon and his friend Harold Devlin walked together on the flank. The two, like the others charged with security on that side of the column, marched twenty yards on the right of the main body. Tommy’s enthusiasm practically bubbled over.

  “Ain’t this something though, Harold?” he asked. Holding his rifle at the high port position, he hefted it as if an attack by Indians was imminent.

  Harold Devlin, who at the age of twenty-five was seven years older, glanced back at the youngster and slowly shook his head. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you, Tommy?”

  “This is soldiering, Harold!” Tommy exclaimed. “Ain’t this why we joined up?”

  Harold smiled. “Perhaps.”

  “It sure beats working the farm, let me tell you,” Tommy said. “They’re getting ready to plant back on the farm. I’m glad I ain’t there.”

  Harold thought about his old job in the hometown bank. Although he missed it terribly, he would not have gone back to it for anything.

  “What do you think we’re going to be doing out here, Harold? Do you think we’ll finally see some Indians? Maybe we’ll have a battle, huh?”

  “Listen, Tommy,” Harold said. “What we’re doing is the same thing that’s been going on ever since we marched out of Fort Keogh a month ago. We’re going through another miserable, pointless job thought up by some narrow-minded martinet.”

  Tommy liked Harold, but the older soldier sometimes dampened his spirits. “What’s a martinet, Harold?”

  “He was a French drillmaster from very long ago, Tommy. He loved senseless marching about and the wearing of uniforms. But never you mind; just enjoy this soldiering,” Harold said. “You can forget that farm of yours for at least another four and a half years.”

  “Sure, Harold,” Tommy said. He was thoughtful for a few moments. “You know a lot. You’re a real smart feller. I reckon you’re the smartest soldier in the comp’ny,” Tommy said. “Ever’body says so. You’re always reading books. I’ll bet you got one in your haversack right now.”

  “Actually, I have three,” Harold replied with an amused smile. “I would like to have more since it appears we’re to be out here for quite a while. But I hadn’t the room.”

  “Maybe you should try to be an officer. Would you like that, Harold?”

  “Hell, no! I’ll put in my five years and get out.”

  “How come you ’listed, Harold?”

  “Hurt pride drove me here. And it’s that same pride that’s going to make me do my duty and see my hitch all the way through instead of running off like some of the other fellows,” Harold said.

  “You have lots o’ schooling, Harold,” Tommy said. “I’l
l bet you even have a trade. Do you?”

  “My education isn’t what I would like to have, but I do have experience as a bank teller,” Harold said.

  “A bank teller!” Tommy exclaimed. “Why in the world—”

  “We’d better quiet down and keep a lookout for Indians or Sergeant Robertson is going to come out here and give us a kick,” Harold said.

  “Sure,” Tommy said. He shifted his Springfield rifle again and shook his head. “Imagine that. A bank teller marching along out here in the wilderness.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Harold Devlin said. He chuckled, but there was no mirth in it.

  The march continued through the rest of the morning. Riker kept them moving for fifty minutes, then called ten-minute rest breaks. By midday the column had traveled twelve miles over the rolling, dipping terrain.

  An hour was allotted for the noonday meal, and those men not detailed on picket duty immediately set to building fires and heating water for coffee. By staying close to the river, they had no problem with keeping their canteens filled with cool, fresh water.

  The one exception to the activities was Private Michael Mulligan.

  As per the first sergeant’s instructions, he reported to the senior noncommissioned officer at each break. Most of the time he was required to remain standing in one place and not given permission to remove his haversack or blanket roll. But the midday routine was different.

  Robertson, gnawing on a piece of salt pork, gave his instructions. “You’re gonna dig a hole six feet long, six feet wide, and six feet deep.”

  Mulligan’s battered features assumed an expression of indignation. “Just when am I supposed to eat?”

  “In the mornings and evenings,” Robertson said. “Thieves in my outfit don’t answer three mess calls a day.” Then he added ominously, “And them that complain only make one.”

  “I ain’t got nothing but that little spade to dig holes with,” Mulligan said with a complaining tone in his voice. “We throwed the big shovels in the quartermaster wagon back at the bivouac.”