North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  When he came on Satan, standing head down, still as marble except for the movement of his eye, Charles changed mounts and headed on into the north, his emotions a raw mass of sorrow and outrage. At dusk he stopped to rest and camp. He built a buffalo-chip fire, then chewed some pemmican from his own parfleche. Two bites and his belly ached. Four bites, it all came up.

  After the storm the sky cleared, leaving him huddled in a cold breeze under brilliant stars. Shivering, he opened Wooden Foot’s parfleche. He found the paint pots and the rolled-up winter count. He untied the thong and spread it at his feet.

  Although he couldn’t explain the reason, something compelled him to try to finish it. He opened the pot of black, moistened the brush, dipped it in, and poised it over the pictograph history of the Jackson Trading Company’s final year.

  He studied the various figures Wooden Foot had painted, including the three of them in the sanctuary of the Buffalo Hat tipi. How he had misunderstood that incident. It had fooled him into believing the Cheyennes were capable of compassion. They weren’t. Only the sanctity of the object, the hat, had saved the traders. The Cheyennes hated all whites, and never mind if they had reasons. They had no reasons good enough to justify the barbarity he had seen. They simply hated whites. The same way he now hated every last one of them.

  His bleak face reflecting the campfire, he laboriously painted three exceedingly crude stick figures, a dog and two men. The second figure was to the right and slightly above the first, and the third similarly elevated above the second, as though all stood on an invisible stair.

  Trying to conceive a way to picture the Hanging Road above the figures, he faltered. Should he paint wavy lines for the Milky Way? No. Five-pointed stars. He did one, corrected two of the points, then two others, and found himself with a solid blob instead of an open star figure.

  He flung the brush into the fire, then the paints. He held the edges of the pictograph and studied each image in turn, finally purged of any impulse to cry. He still grieved, but the grief had hardened. His own life, which he’d tried so hard to reconstruct over the past winter, had been destroyed as quickly and surely as the grass in the path of the prairie fire.

  Sharpsburg all over again—

  Northern Virginia all over again—

  Nothing changes.

  Christ!

  He laid the winter count on the fire and watched it burn. They want killing, I’ll give them killing, he thought. I know more about it than they do. I had five hundred thousand expert teachers.

  The figures on the pictograph blackened and burned while he watched, seeking to remember every fiery image.

  Book Three

  Banditti

  I HAVE JUST RETURNED from Fort Wallace, over the line of the Union Pacific Railway, E.D. The Indians along the whole line are engaged in their savage warfare. On Saturday three of our men were killed and scalped within twenty miles of Fort Barker … What can be done to end these atrocities?

  JOHN D. PERRY, President of the U.P.E.D.,

  to the Governor of Kansas, 1867

  The Chiefs have signed it merely as a matter of form. Not one word of the treaty was read to them … If war is … thus commenced, who are to blame? The commissioners.

  HENRY M. STANLEY, New York Tribune,

  after Medicine Lodge Creek, 1867

  The people of the frontier universally declare the Indians to be at war, and the Indian commissioners and agents pronounce them at peace, leaving us in the gap to be abused by both parties.

  Annual Report of

  GENERAL WILLIAM T. SHERMAN, 1867

  24

  A THUNDERSTORM SWEPT THE sky and shook the earth. On the flooded road from Leavenworth City, a horseman galloped out of the dark.

  The weary sentry stepped into the rain, forcing the rider to halt. A lightning bolt etched the horseman in white. His mustache drooped and his full, tangled beard needed trimming. A poncho-style garment resembling a patchwork quilt hung from his shoulders. He clenched a cold cigar stub in his teeth.

  Rain dripped from the bill of the boyish sentry’s cap. “State your name and business on the post.”

  “Get out of my way.”

  “Mister, I order you to state your name and—”

  Seemingly in an eyeblink, the man’s hand filled with an Army Colt. With a single flowing motion he cocked and aimed it at the sentry’s forehead. Another glitter of lightning revealed the man’s eyes under his hat brim. The sentry saw hell in them.

  Terrified, the sentry retreated against the guard box. The crotch of his long underwear felt damp suddenly. He waved. “Pass on.”

  The horseman was already beyond him, at the gallop.

  The rain beat on the roof. Jack Duncan poured brandy. Charles accepted his drink without a word. The brigadier didn’t like that, or the surprise visitor’s filthy appearance, or the haunted fatigue shadows ringing his eyes. Charles had stunned Duncan first by arriving at half past one in the morning, second by announcing that he wanted to join the Army.

  “I thought you’d had enough.”

  “No.” Charles flung his head back and swallowed all the brandy.

  “Well, Charles Main can’t enlist. Neither can Charles May, late of Jefferson Barracks.”

  “I’ll use another name.”

  “Charles, calm down. You’re almost raving. What brought this on?”

  He slammed his empty glass on a packing box that served as a table. “Adolphus Jackson pulled me through one of the worst years of my life. He taught me more plains craft than I could quote to you in a week. I’m going to punish the bastards who butchered him.”

  Duncan’s face, puffy with tiredness, showed his disapproval. He pulled his old dressing gown together and retied the sash, pacing past the sheet-iron stove, cold now. “I don’t blame you for bearing a grudge for what the Cheyennes did. But I don’t think it’s an ideal motive for—”

  “It’s how I feel,” Charles interrupted. “Just tell me if I have a chance.”

  His loud voice roused Maureen. From behind the door of her room she made a sleepy inquiry. With the gentleness of an attentive spouse, the brigadier said, “Go to sleep. Nothing’s wrong.” Charles stared at the closed door, reminded of Willa’s staying here.

  “A slim chance, no more,” Duncan said in answer to his question. “Do you know the name Grierson?”

  “I know Grierson’s Sixth Illinois Cavalry. They rode six hundred miles in sixteen days inside the Confederacy to pull Pemberton away while Grant crossed the Mississippi below Vicksburg. That ride was worthy of Jeb Stuart or Wade Hampton. If it’s the same Grierson, he was good enough to be on our side.”

  It pleased Duncan to see Charles show a trace of sardonic humor. “It’s the same Grierson. He turned into a damn fine cavalryman for a small-town music teacher scared of horses.”

  “Scared of—?” Charles couldn’t believe it.

  “True. A pony kicked him when he was eight. He still bears the scar.” Duncan touched his right cheek. “Grierson arrived day before yesterday, to await his recruits for his new regiment. It’s one of those that Congress authorized in July. Grierson’s desperate for good officers who can teach and lead, but nobody wants to serve in the Tenth Cavalry. The men are being recruited in New York, Philadelphia, Boston—the dregs of the urban poor. Mostly illiterate.”

  “The Army’s full of illiterates.”

  “Not like these. Grierson’s men will all be black.”

  That gave Charles pause. He helped himself to more brandy, thinking hard.

  Duncan explained that a Ninth Cavalry Regiment was being raised in Phil Sheridan’s Division of the Gulf; Sherman’s division would get the Tenth. “Grierson told me the recruiters have been able to sign up only one private so far. The War Department insists on white officers, well qualified, but Union veterans who want a commission don’t want one in the Tenth. You know George Custer?”

  “I do. I went against him for a minute at Brandy Station. They say he’s a glory-seeking peac
ock, but he surely won battles.”

  “Custer is anxious to get back into uniform but even so, he wouldn’t touch a commission in the Ninth. He’s typical. The soldiers on the Union side fought for the colored man, I suppose, but by and large they don’t like him or want anything more to do with him. Grierson’s an exception. Quite an idealist.”

  “What would it take for me to get into the Tenth?”

  “More than just the desire. Wartime experience. Examination by a special review board. And you’d need a Presidential pardon. Not as Charles Main, either. Charles Main graduated from the Military Academy. But I wouldn’t expect someone like you to be willing to command Negroes.”

  “If they’re any good, why not? I know black people a hell of a lot better than most Yankees do.”

  “These will be Northern black men. They’ll hear your accent first thing. They won’t like it.”

  “I can deal with that.”

  “Think carefully before you say that. Go forward now and you’re off the precipice. No changing your mind—”

  “God damn it, I’ll command men whose skins are blue if they can kill Indians. What are my chances?”

  Duncan thought about it, staring through the flawed glass of his parlor window at the dismal rain. “About even. If Grierson would take you, he could help smooth your way with General Hancock at Division. So could I.”

  “Could I get a pardon?”

  “If you lie about your rank as a scout for Hampton. Scale it down. Say you were an irregular. Are there records to dispute that?”

  “Probably not. Most burned up in Richmond, they say.”

  “Then you should be all right. A pardon will require a different name, and the services of a broker. That’ll cost five hundred dollars or so.”

  Charles uttered a defeated obscenity and sat back, his stark face lighted on one side by the guttering flame of a lamp almost out of oil.

  “I’ll put up the money,” the brigadier said. “I know of a top pardon broker, too. Washington lawyer named Dills. He hand-carries applications to the Clerk of Pardons and the President.” A pause. “I still have reservations, Charles. I know you’re a fine soldier. But you’re going back for the wrong reason.”

  “When can I see Grierson?”

  “Tomorrow, I suppose.” Duncan cleared his throat, then sniffed with unmistakable meaning. “After you bathe.”

  Far away, the storm rumbled. Charles smiled. It reminded Duncan of the grimace of a fleshless skull.

  The Tenth Cavalry had temporary offices in one of the frame buildings housing Department of the Missouri headquarters, on the east side of the parade ground. A middle-aged captain hunched behind the desk with the wary air of a man defending a fortification. Over a wide down-curving mouth drooped a large pointed dragoon’s mustache, mostly white.

  “May I see him, Ike?”

  “Think so, General Duncan.” The captain knocked and stepped into the inner office.

  Tilting his head toward the closed door, Duncan said to Charles, “Ike’s been in the regulars twenty years. Tough bird. Down at Sabine Crossroads in ’64, he helped clear a wagon train blocking the retreat road when Dick Taylor turned back Nate Banks. He was decorated. Couple of months later he was riding for A. J. Smith when old Smitty repulsed Forrest at Tupelo. That action earned him a field commission.”

  The captain returned, leaving the door open. The brigadier said, “This is my son-in-law, Charles.” They’d already decided he should keep that part of his name. “Captain Isaac Newton Barnes. Regimental adjutant.”

  “Acting adjutant,” Barnes said in a pointed way.

  While Duncan went in and shut the door, Charles said, “Pleasure, sir.” It paid to be respectful to an adjutant; he usually exercised more power than the commanding officer.

  Ike Barnes scowled at the litter of orders, files and reports on his desk. In profile he resembled an S—round shoulders, concave lower back, sizable paunch. His right eye cocked slightly.

  “I hate this job,” he said, sitting. “I’m a horse soldier, not a damn clerk. I’ll get C Company as soon as the colonel finds somebody else stupid enough to get stuck shuffling all these damn papers.”

  A breathless sergeant dashed in. “Captain! Two colored boys on the steamboat landing. They’re yours.”

  “Damn it to hell, Sergeant, you know better than to say colored within a mile of this office. The colonel will not tolerate his regiment being designated the way they were in the war. This is not the Tenth Colored Cavalry, it’s the Tenth Cavalry. Excuse me,” he snapped at Charles as he followed the noncom out. His formidable paunch seemed to advance separately, like some kind of honor guard. Charles actually managed a smile.

  In ten minutes Duncan came out. “He’s interested. This time tell the truth, and see if you can work things out.” He punched Charles’s shoulder. “Luck.”

  Duncan marched toward the outer door and Charles moved to the inner one. As he passed through, Duncan’s image of a man stepping off a precipice flashed through his head.

  Colonel Benjamin F. Grierson’s huge beard and bold nose lent him a piratical air, enhanced by the facial scar. After inviting Charles to sit, he placed a fresh sheet of paper on his desk near a small gold case holding an ambrotype in an oval matte. Charles presumed the woman to be Grierson’s wife.

  “I’ll be straightforward, Mr. Main. Your interest in the Tenth raises more than one problem. Before we go into them, I’d like to know why you’re here. Jack told you that scores of capable officers in this army detest the idea of Negro regiments.”

  “He did, sir. I’m here because I’m a soldier, and that’s all I am. The Southern Cheyennes killed my partner and his nephew a couple of months ago—”

  “So Jack said. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. I want to make up for what the Cheyennes did—”

  “Not in my regiment, sir,” Grierson said, with a touch of ire. “The Tenth won’t formulate policy, just carry it out. Our mission from General Sherman is to bolster the military presence on the Plains. It is defensive only. We’re to protect the settlers, the travel routes, the railroad construction crews. We are not to attack unless attacked first.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry if I said—”

  “Hear me out, sir. Before we can carry out our mission, we must teach city men to march, ride, shoot, and behave in a military manner. I’m talking about unlettered men, Mr. Main—porters, waiters, teamsters. Black men who’ve never before had a chance at a decent career. I fully intend to turn such men into superior soldiers that any commander would be proud to lead. I will do it the way I taught the scales to my beginning music pupils in Illinois. With rigid discipline and constant and relentless drill. That will be the responsibility of my officers. They will have no time for personal vendettas.”

  “I apologize for my remark, sir. I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Good,” Grierson said. “Otherwise I’d not waste time on you.” Eyeing Charles in a speculative way, he added, “No, that’s dishonest. I am not interviewing you completely by choice, but rather, because of the dire need I already mentioned. I confess, however, to being somewhat reluctant to recruit a Southerner.”

  Despite a spurt of resentment, Charles kept still.

  “You see, Mr. Main, I have a peculiar vision of this country. Peculiar in that it is apparently not shared by the thousands of brevet colonels and generals chasing after a very few low-rank line commissions. I believe in the exact words of Mr. Jefferson’s declaration that all men are created equal, if not in mind and body and circumstance, then most assuredly in opportunity. I believe we fought the war, whether we realize it or not, in order to extend that vision to the black race. I do know it isn’t a popular idea. Many of my fellow officers accuse me of—their words—niggering them to death. So be it. I believe the vision must prevail first of all in this new regiment. If the regiment won’t work, then the Army doesn’t work, America doesn’t work, nothing works. So my officers must cheerfully bear the extra burde
n of standing between their men and the extreme hostility and prejudice rampant in the Army.”

  His stare was unwavering. “You’re from South Carolina. I don’t care about that unless it means you can’t live by my rules. If you can’t, I don’t want you.”

  Tense now, fearing rejection, Charles said, “I can, sir.”

  “You can deal honestly, squarely, with Negro soldiers?”

  “I got along well with blacks on the plantation where I was raised.”

  The wrong tack again. Grierson waved with bitter scorn. “Bondsmen, Mr. Main. Slaves. Immaterial here.”

  Charles’s voice hardened a little. “Let me put it another way, sir. No, I won’t get along with every last man.” Grierson started to retort, but Charles kept on. “I didn’t get along with all of the white men in the Wade Hampton Legion or the Second Cavalry in Texas. Every outfit has its share of idiots and berrypickers. I always warned that kind of man once, but only once. If he kept on, I locked him up. If he still kept on, I got him discharged. I’d behave the same way in the Tenth.” He locked his gaze with Grierson’s. “Like a professional.”

  Silence. Grierson stared. Suddenly, between the bushy mustache and luxuriant beard, he flashed a smile.

  “A good answer. A soldier’s answer. I accept it. Men of the Tenth will be judged on merit, nothing else.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charles said, though his prompt answer made him a little uneasy. He was quick to speak because he wanted to join a regiment, any regiment, and this one was desperate for officers. But he had reservations about the ability of city blacks to become good soldiers—exactly the same reservations he’d had about the white flotsam he’d found at Jefferson Barracks. The bias probably came from his West Point training, but there it was.

  Grierson leaned forward. “Mr. Main, I detest liars and cheats and am about to qualify myself as both. You will be required to do the same when the special review board examines you. At least one member, Captain Krug, will bore in hard. He hates every man who wore Confederate gray. His younger brother perished in Andersonville prison.”