by John Jakes
A wagon creaked down the hillside toward the noisy Indians. The sight of it hit Charles like a hammer. It was the provision wagon that had been following the soldiers, but now it was being driven by three braves. The left side of the wagon’s canvas top was splotched by a huge bloodstain.
Troopers crowded up behind Charles, whispering and pointing at the wagon. “The red fuckers,” one man growled. “What d’you suppose they did with our boys?”
Charles said, “I’d rather not know.”
He headed for the back door of the farmhouse. The death of Lafayette O’Dell placed an unwanted responsibility on him. To make matters worse, the captain refused to admit that he was in over his head. If any of Bent’s ideas were questioned, he would surely fly into a rage. Charles would just have to accept that fact—that added problem—and deal with it as best he could.
Thank God no decisions were required immediately. All they had to do was dig in and await the reinforcements.
The last hour had changed Charles’s ideas about the nature of war. War was not a gay martial parade on the Plain with the ranks perfectly aligned, every bit of brass polished, and the flags flying while the drums beat cadence. War was disorder, dirt, death. It was nerve-shredding fright.
His legs still felt shaky as he entered the farmhouse. The interior consisted of a long, flat-roofed room with alcoves for sleeping, plus another housing an iron stove. The place reeked of powder smoke and something far worse. He saw flies walking on two bodies covered to the neck by blankets. One, an older, gray-haired man, he presumed to be Lantzman. The other was the farmer’s oldest son, Karl, the one whose leg injury had prevented the family from fleeing. He presumed both men had died outside.
Four members of the family remained. Mrs. Lantzman was a worn little woman with moles on her chin. Two blond sons in their late teens moved slowly, like sleepwalkers. Their eyes were glassy. The fourth survivor, a girl, seemed less affected by the siege, perhaps because she was younger.
She was about twelve, Charles guessed. Her sweet face reflected her youth, but she had already developed a woman’s figure. As Charles stood silently, he saw Bent’s eyes shift and linger on the full bosom within the tight, stained bodice of the girl’s kersey dress.
The girl was unaware of the attention. She was busy pulling round shot from a leather pouch hung from her shoulder. Her long gun leaned against her other hip. An Augustin musket, Charles noticed; Austrian jaeger battalions carried them, and the quartermaster of the Army, Joe Johnston, imported a good many.
Close to tears, Mrs. Lantzman said, “How can we stay here, Captain? We have no more food. My husband died trying to reach the creek to bring back water.”
“We have rations to share. Water, too.” Bent sounded smooth and confident. “I’ll have my men dig in around the house”—Charles had crossed the room and now put his eye to a loophole on the creek side. His right hand clenched—“while we await the reinforcements. With no bad weather to hamper them, they should arrive before the end of the day.”
Without turning, Charles said, “I think not, Captain.”
“What’s that?”
“You’d better see this. A half-dozen braves just rode in. Look at the ones with lances.”
Bent waddled to the loophole and squinted. His face drained of color. Four of the new arrivals held their lances high and shook them. On the points of two, trophies were impaled.
The heads of the two soldiers sent to Camp Cooper.
Charles thought the captain would go to pieces. Bent paced, muttered to himself, several times turned to blurt some thought but never did. There was a wild, vacant glint in his eye. The dazed Lantzman boys knew something was amiss. Even the girl stared at the captain fearfully.
Every second was precious now. Charles cleared his throat. “Sir—”
Bent whirled, shouting, “What is it?”
“I’d like permission to send scouts back through the cornfield. That’s our only avenue of retreat.”
The captain gave a limp wave and sank onto a stool. “Go ahead.” He stared into space as Charles hurried out.
Charles was back in twenty minutes, looking grim. “They’ve already moved men into the gullies behind the field. At least fifteen, Corporal Ostrander said. We’re cut off. Surrounded.”
Why hadn’t they left before this? Charles asked himself in a silent burst of fury. But of course he couldn’t hold Bent responsible for their failure to do so; they had all anticipated the eventual arrival of a relief column. Evidently the two dead troopers had run into one of those small bands whose signs Doss had discovered. Charles had a feeling the entire expedition was cursed.
Bent swiped a hand across his perspiring face. “Surrounded? Then we must dig in and wait for help.”
“From where?” Charles exclaimed.
“I don’t know! Someone will come—” The sentence trailed off.
“But Captain,” the girl said, “is there enough food?”
Mrs. Lantzman shook her head. “Hush, Martha. Don’t question the soldiers. They know best.”
“Yes. Exactly right,” Bent said with another of those vague looks.
He was foundering again. Charles couldn’t permit it to continue. “Just a minute,” he said.
Bent’s head jerked around, his moist eyes brimming with resentment. Charles spoke to the others rather than to his superior: “We have to recognize that we’re in a bad situation. We’re outnumbered, and no one from Camp Cooper will be coming to relieve us. The Comanches can build up their forces and attack at their pleasure. I don’t believe any of us wants to sit here and wait to be killed. Or taken prisoner,” he added with a glance at Martha. Mrs. Lantzman understood his meaning.
“What do you propose we do?” Bent snarled.
“Hold on till dark, then attempt to break out. I’ve thought of a way to distract—”
Bent jumped up, overturning the stool and screaming his answer.
“No.”
As the cry died away, a strange feeling swept over Charles. He felt as though he had just decided to leap into a chasm—which, in a way, he had. But what other choice did he have? Bent was out of control, incapable of dealing with the situation.
“I’m sorry, sir, but escape is the only way.”
The captain’s face reddened again. He grabbed a small puncheon table, hurled it aside, and stormed toward Charles. “Are you disputing me? Questioning my authority?”
“If you mean to stay here, Captain, I guess I am.”
“Lieutenant”—Bent took a deep breath in an effort to control himself, but his voice still shook—“you will say nothing more. That is a direct order. Go outside until I send for you.”
Charles hated matters to come to this—a test of authority, of wills. The two of them should be pulling together to save the others. But how did you convince a lunatic of that? he asked himself wearily.
“I’ll go, sir,” he said, “but I can’t obey the rest of the order. If we stay here, we’re finished.”
Bent looked at him a moment, then said quietly, “Lieutenant Main, you will obey my order or face court-martial.”
“Captain, we’re leaving.”
Bent grabbed Charles’s collar and twisted. “Goddamn it, I’ll see that you’re cashiered!”
Charles deliberately removed Bent’s hand. He wanted to hit the fat officer; only with great effort did he restrain himself. His voice dropped low. “If we get back alive, you’re welcome to try.”
He glanced at Mrs. Lantzman, her two sons, and finally at the girl, who stood holding her Austrian musket in both hands. “We’ll leave as soon as it’s dark. I’ll take anyone who wants to go. If you do, you’d better bury those bodies. We can’t take them.”
Mrs. Lantzman knelt beside her husband’s corpse, shooed the flies off, and began to straighten the blanket. Suddenly she burst into tears. Charles looked away.
The resolute expression on Martha’s face showed she had already made up her mind. Charles turned to the captain and s
aid, “I’ll make the same offer to the men. No one will be forced to go.”
Bent whispered, “Get out of my sight.”
Doubled over, Charles ran toward the edge of the cornfield a few minutes later. From the ravines on the far side, a shot boomed. The ball hissed through the tassels above him. Kneeling, he tore off a couple of leaves and rolled them between his palms.
Dry as powder. Now if he could persuade Mrs. Lantzman to turn her horses loose—the Comanches would get them anyway—they might have a chance, although not much of one.
47
WESTWARD, ONLY A THIN rind of sun showed above the foothills. The light was rapidly fading from the land and sky. In his mind Charles had gone over the escape plan and the signals involved half a dozen times.
An hour ago, following his instructions, troopers had built a cook fire halfway between the house and the field, where the Indians would be sure to see it. Inside, Mrs. Lantzman and her daughter had wrapped rags around the ends of cottonwood branches and soaked the rags in lamp oil. The Lantzman boys had saddled horses for the family and were now in position behind the hay bales on the far side of the building, prepared to make the dangerous dash to the corral.
Corporal Ostrander slipped through the shadows to Charles’s side. “Sir, everything’s ready.”
“All right, it’s time. We—”
He stopped as Ostrander’s startled eyes focused somewhere beyond him. Charles turned. From the farmhouse door Bent spoke.
“I’m going.”
The captain had been the sole holdout. Charles tried to extend an olive branch by replying in a mild tone. “Fine, sir.”
It did no good. “I’m going principally for the satisfaction of seeing you thrown out of the Army in disgrace.”
Charles’s gaze hardened. “Whatever you say, sir. But I must respectfully remind you that I have temporarily assumed command.”
Did the captain’s eyes twinkle then? Charles’s spine crawled. Bent almost smiled as he drew on the fringed gauntlets he favored.
“You have made me quite aware of that, Lieutenant. All day I have watched you busily undermining my authority and turning the men against me. Enjoy the command. It’s your last.”
He stared at Charles without blinking. Across the creek the besiegers whooped and thumped their hide drum.
Martha Lantzman appeared with the unlit torches. Holding them down close to the ground so as not to draw the attention of the sentinels beyond the field, she passed them one by one to Ostrander. He in turn gave them to men pretending to lounge at the cook fire. In the darkness at either end of the house, horses whickered; the rest of the troopers were in the saddle and were holding the mounts of the men responsible for lighting the torches.
“Find your horses,” he said to Mrs. Lantzman and her daughter. They hurried away. He looked pointedly at the captain, who incredibly seemed to laugh, then followed after them.
Charles turned and studied the cornfield, wondering whether he—all of them—might die out there. Unexpectedly, like a river current in spring flood, a powerful will to live surged in him. Reckoning that the situation was almost hopeless anyway, he realized he had precious little to lose. He therefore could, and should, act boldly. The dirty bearded mask of his face cracked open and his teeth shone as he forced a smile.
Some of the men saw, and they too began to smile. Charles realized he had discovered one of the secrets of being a good officer in a tight spot. Perhaps he’d live to put it to use again.
He looked at each of the others to show the moment had come. Then he thrust his revolver up over his head and fired.
At the sound of the shot, all activity stopped in the Comanche camp. Then Charles heard a commotion among the horses in the corral and quickly thereafter one of the Lantzman boys yelling, “Hah!”
The horses galloped out. Some of them splashed into the creek, just before the first Comanche shot rang out. The Indians had no clear targets, but they obviously knew something was afoot.
Charles fired twice more. In response to the signal, the troopers plunged the torches into the embers. The rags ignited with soft explosions. Each man dashed to a prearranged place on the right or left and there set fire to the corn, the plan being to leave a fifty-foot-wide lane in the center. Charles counted on the lack of wind to help keep that lane open long enough for them to escape.
He sprinted to his horse and mounted. Flames were already shooting up above the dry stalks; the field was burning faster than he’d anticipated. He rode to the entrance of the lane, reined to one side, and slashed downward with his revolver, as he shouted:
“Column of twos, trot march, ho!”
A line of men rode from each corner of the house, quickly forming the double column. Charles had put the most experienced riders in front and the Lantzmans at the most protected position, in the center.
By twos the men and horses pounded into the lane. The spreading fire already threatened the entrance. The fainter sound of splashing water told Charles the Comanches were crossing the creek. “Hurry, damn it!” he yelled to the men who had handled the torches. They mounted and trotted into the lane. Charles felt the heat of the fire on his back. Bent’s horse shied, but he forced it ahead, following the double column.
Flames leaped from both sides of the lane and interlaced across it. A painted Indian rode into sight at one corner of the house. Charles squeezed off a shot and dropped him. Then, applying spurs, he drove his roan through the fire. He bent low over his mount’s neck. Ahead, fire had narrowed the lane to a width of ten feet. Bent was some twenty yards in front of him, and beyond the captain Charles could see little except the bobbing forms of his men, silhouettes against the brightness.
A lick of flame touched Bent’s sleeve. Smoke curled from the fabric. The captain yelped and slapped the fire out. His horse carried him from the burning field into the dark, where Ostrander was supposed to hold the column together and lead it forward at a gallop. Charles hoped the corporal was still alive.
Smoke billowed around him now. The fire consumed the corn with a roar. The lane was nearly closed directly ahead. Charles bent so low he thought his ribs might crack. He whispered encouragement to the roan as the flame barrier loomed.
The roan leaped as fearlessly as the best Academy jumper. Light blinded Charles. Heat scorched his cheeks. Then they were through into cool air and darkness.
The roan came down surely, but hard. Charles was almost unseated. He held on and a second later a nightmare face—yellow-clayed cheeks, white eyes—came rushing at him from the right.
A Comanche sentinel, on foot. The Indian hacked downward with his trade hatchet, striking for Charles’s thigh. Charles applied spurs and the roan sprang on. The hatchet missed Charles but buried in the animal’s flank, cutting clear through the massive muscle and severing an artery. The roan bellowed and reared. Charles tumbled off.
As he fell he managed to shove his revolver against the Comanche’s chest and pull the trigger. The explosion blew the Indian backward into the burning corn. In seconds he was afire from head to foot.
Charles lay pinned by the heaving, bellowing horse. He dragged his leg free, then put his last two shots into the dying roan’s head.
The corn crackled as it burned. Charles looked around but saw no sign of his men. Panic set in. He began running after the others. Recalling that the last rider in the column was the captain, he shouted, “Bent! Bent, help me!”
He staggered on. Had the captain heard him? Had anyone?
He turned to observe the fire. It had spread, building into a high wall of light half a mile wide. As he watched, the flames swallowed one edge of Lantzman’s field and swept to the prairie grass beyond, igniting it instantly.
A humorless smile jerked the corners of his grimy mouth. He had counted on the fire to block the charge of the Comanches who came across the creek. Beyond the flames he could hear them milling and shouting angrily. The sentinels on this side had represented the smaller, more acceptable risk. He had slain one
of them, but there must be others—
“Lieutenant, lookout!”
The voice belonged to a trooper who had heard his cry for help and doubled back. Turning toward the dim figure of the mounted man, Charles let out a gasp. Another Comanche came loping at him from the darkness with a lance.
Charles pivoted to present his right side, then raised and parried with his empty gun. The barrel diverted the thrust just enough to prevent a fatal injury. The iron lance head tore through his sleeve into his shoulder.
The Indian’s run had carried him to within a foot of Charles, who now pulled his knife with his left hand. The painted mouth contorted; the Indian couldn’t pull back quickly enough. Charles rammed the knife to the hilt into his stomach, then yanked it out.
The Comanche lurched sideways. Rage overcoming his agony, he tried a final thrust with the lance. Charles jumped away and waited for the Indian to fall. After an endless moment, he did.
Reaction set in then. Nausea, trembling, blurred vision. Charles couldn’t identify the soldier who had heard his hail, ridden back, and shouted a warning. “Bent?” He shielded his eyes with his forearm but still couldn’t see.
“No, sir, it’s Private Tannen. Captain Bent rode on ahead.”
After he heard me call for help.
“Climb up, sir,” said the private. “We’re going to make it—all of us.”
They followed the fleeing column. Charles held the private’s waist and rode with his eyes closed, his silence blended of shock and relief.
The Comanches pursued them through the darkness for nearly an hour, but never came within musket range. Soon their fading cries signaled their weariness of the profitless sport. They melted away into the summer night—probably heading back to round up the Lantzman horses.
After another hour of hard riding, the column stopped to rest. Miraculously, the only injuries were a couple of flesh wounds similar to the one Charles had suffered. Despite their losses the Lantzmans were jubilant, and so were the troopers, who laughed and talked boisterously. Several congratulated Charles on the success of his daring plan.
