North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  As the night lowered, Charles heard heavy creakings and poppings—the wagons and their drivers’ whips. General Custer went riding past in the storm, Maida and Blucher loping behind.

  Custer’s cheeks were red as blistered skin.

  “… want to see every last one of those damn malingering teamsters in twenty minutes in my …”

  The general vanished behind a tossed-up cloud of snow. Charles had never seen him in such a bad temper, or heard him curse.

  Old Bob, who’d kept up pretty well all day, seemed to know it was a night of misery. He stayed close to Charles, nuzzling his canvas leggings and whining.

  They unpacked their skillets, unfolded the handles, melted some snow, and boiled salt pork. Several pieces of hardtack, softened by sticking them in a drift, went into the pork grease and fried up nicely. That and coffee provided a passable meal, though Charles was still frozen, and chafed raw by the rubbing of his layers of clothing. He kept reminding himself of why he was here. He pictured each member of the Jackson Trading Company as he last saw him.

  Captain Fred Benteen stomped by, muttering, “Goddamn idiot.”

  “Who?” Charles asked.

  “The general. Do you know what he just did?”

  “What?” Griffenstein asked, in a tone that said a mass execution wouldn’t surprise him.

  “Arrested all the teamsters for being so slow. Tomorrow they’re forbidden to ride in their wagons. They have to walk. We won’t have any wagons after that.”

  He went away into the falling snow. Old Bob whined, and Charles rubbed his muzzle and fed him a morsel of boiled pork. From that moment, a formless uneasiness about the expedition began to trouble him. It had nothing to do with the presence of Harry Venable.

  Because of Charles’s reb background, he was something of a curiosity. Young Louis Hamilton, the likable captain in command of A Troop, brought the journalist around after dark. He introduced him as a phonographic reporter representing the New York Herald.

  DeBenneville Keim was eager to talk to Charles. Charles didn’t reciprocate, but he poured him a tin cup of coffee to be hospitable. Keim drank some, then pulled a small, worn book from his coat. The title was stamped in gold on the spine. After the War.

  “I’ve been reading Whitelaw Reid, Mr. Main. You were in South Carolina when Sumter fell. Tell me what you think of this passage about Sullivan’s Island.”

  He handed Charles the book. Reid was a nationally famous Union correspondent who had written field dispatches under the name “Agate.” He’d been one of the first three journalists into Richmond. Charles blinked several times as melting snowflakes dripped water from his eyebrows onto the page and read:

  Here, four years ago, the first fortifications of the war were thrown up. Here the dashing young cavaliers, the haughty Southrons who scorned the Yankee scum, rushed madly into the war as into a picnic. Here the boats from Charleston landed every day cases of champagne, pâtés innumberable, casks of claret, thousands of Havana cigars, for the use of the luxurious young Captains and Lieutenants. Here, with feasting and dancing and love making with music improvised from the ball room, and enthusiasm fed to madness by well-ripened old Madeira, the free-handed free-mannered young men who had ruled “society” at Newport and Saratoga, dashed into revolution as they would into a waltz. …

  Keim put a red-ruled notebook on his knee. The pages were filled with the squiggles of phonography, a journalist shorthand. “It’s a vivid picture. Was that really how it was?”

  A vast sadness rose in Charles. He thought of poor Ambrose Pell. “Yes, but not for very long. And it’s all gone now. It’ll never come back.”

  He snapped the book shut and thrust it at Keim. Something strange and bleak on his face forestalled any more questions; Keim directed them to Dutch Henry instead. Charles rubbed Old Bob to silence his growling.

  Next day the march resumed, the punished teamsters struggling along on foot. The storm abated. The clouds cleared, but that created another difficulty. The glare of sun on the drifted snowfields was unmerciful on the eyes.

  They advanced in a southwesterly direction, following the Wolf, which enabled Charles to put his compass away. He rode well in front with several of the Osages, who kept giving him uneasy stares because he sang to himself, in a raspy near-monotone:

  “The old sheep done know the road,

  The old sheep done know the road,

  The old sheep done know the road …

  The young lamb must find the way.”

  “Where’d you learn that?” Dutch Henry inquired.

  “The nigras on the sea islands back home sing it. Church song.”

  “You make it sound like we’re goin’ to a funeral.”

  “I just have a funny feeling about this, Henry. A bad feeling.”

  “Well, you wanted to be here.”

  “That I did.” Charles shrugged; maybe he was a damn fool. But the uneasiness stayed.

  The route of march was planned to take them upstream to a point where they could strike southward to the Antelope Hills near the North Canadian. The bed of Wolf Creek soon turned in a more westerly direction. Once again exhausted from breaking through so many high drifts, and half blinded by a sun not warm enough to melt the snow significantly, they staggered into another campsite on bluffs above the creek. Charles heard that one of the teamsters had pulled a pistol on Curly, who kicked his balls, disarmed him single-handed, and ordered him flogged with knotted rope. Griffenstein said Custer had summoned the phonographic reporter and ordered him not to write a word about the punishment if he wanted to continue with the expedition.

  “Kind of stupid to offend a reporter that way, don’t you think, Charlie?”

  “Not if you’re watching your ass. Not if you want to run for President someday.”

  In the morning they bore away from their westerly course and advanced due south. Here and there a few dark patches of woodland showed on the horizon, like charcoal smears on a clean sheet of drawing paper. Some topography was apparent despite the great amount of snow. From the Wolf, the prairie sloped upward slightly to a ridge line or divide. By afternoon they were on the downward side. They encamped that night about a mile north of the Canadian.

  Charles and California Joe did a sweep along the river, which was still flowing very rapidly, considerably over its banks. Massive ice chunks came swirling down with the current. They located a ford that looked passable. More sober than Charles had ever seen him, Joe Milner cautiously walked his mule across it. Suddenly he sank six inches.

  “Quicksand. Well, they ain’t any other place to cross. She’ll have to do.”

  After he struggled out, they returned and reported. Custer seemed satisfied. Dutch Henry said Major Elliott had already left with three troops, and no wagons, to range up the valley of the Canadian in search of Indians. The Corbin brothers and several of the Osages had gone with Elliott. Dutch Henry finished his remarks with a reminder that tomorrow, Thursday, would be Thanksgiving.

  Charles didn’t care very much. It was a Northern holiday, and no Army cooks would be serving the traditional big dinner in this frozen wasteland.

  Quicksand, icy water, dangerous ice chunks that smashed wheel spokes and lamed two horses caused the Canadian crossing to take more than three hours early on Thanksgiving Day. Every trooper, civilian, and Indian was soggy and dispirited when it was over, but they perked up at the sight of the Antelope Hills straight ahead. Reaching these familiar formations proved they hadn’t wandered aimlessly.

  The five clustered hillocks were anywhere from one hundred fifty to three hundred feet high. Two were conical, three oblong, and from the highest there was a magnificent view of the country: the twisty Canadian behind and, ahead, a vista of snowfields that seemed to roll on and on forever.

  Early in the afternoon, shouts signaled the approach of a rider coming in from the direction Elliott’s column had taken. Trumpeters summoned the officers and scouts to Custer’s marquee, where there was a great state of excitem
ent. Maida and Blucher leaped and yapped. Custer struck each dog lightly with a riding crop, and they made no more noise.

  “Repeat it for those who just got here, Jack,” Custer said.

  “Major Elliott’s about twelve miles or so up the north bank,” Jack Corbin said. “There’s a crossing, and sign aplenty. ‘Bout one hundred fifty hostiles passed over, going a little east of south. The sign ain’t more than a day old.”

  Charles’s fingers started to tingle. Excited murmurs greeted the news, and Custer’s blister-red face fairly beamed. Handsome Harry Venable, whose hostile looks didn’t faze Charles any longer, stated the obvious:

  “If we keep on and they do, they’ll cross our trail ahead of us. Maybe today.”

  “Aye God,” California Joe said, reeling slightly from some recent refreshment. “It’s Thanksgiving Day, and we got Custer’s Luck.”

  Some of the sycophantic officers went “Hear, hear” and clapped. The anti-Custer men, including Benteen, glowered. Custer himself looked renewed; he couldn’t stand still.

  “I want the men ready in twenty minutes for a night march. No tents, no blankets. One hundred rounds per man, a little coffee and hardtack, and that’s all. We’ll take seven wagons and one ambulance. The rest of the baggage train stays here with one troop and the officer of the day. Where is he?”

  “Here, sir.” Captain Louis Hamilton stepped forward. He looked unhappy. “I beg the general’s permission to go with the detachment. I’ll bet those damn Indians are close to their lair, and we’re going to find it.”

  “I commend your enthusiasm, Hamilton. I share it.” By now Custer was fairly dancing around the marquee. His blood was up, and so was that of almost everyone else. Charles wondered why, after so many months of yearning for revenge, he didn’t share the excitement.

  Custer continued: “If you can find a substitute in twenty minutes, you’re welcome to ride with us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hamilton exclaimed, like a boy given a handful of candy. He dashed out without bothering to salute. Everyone laughed.

  To Jack Corbin, Custer said: “Can you get back to Major Elliott?”

  “With a fresh horse I can, General.”

  “Tell him to continue the pursuit with all vigor. We should intersect with him about dark. Tell him to expect that.”

  Corbin hurried away. Custer dismissed the others. There was a huge push to leave the marquee. Dutch Henry fairly exploded with good humor. “I think we’re gonna get what we come for, Charlie.”

  The advance sounded in twenty minutes precisely. The designated force, eleven troops and Cooke’s Sharpshooters, struck south again through high drifts. Hamilton was along; an officer suffering partial snow blindness had agreed to take charge of the wagons.

  The weather had moderated a little; the drifts were melting. In a couple of hours, Hard Rope and another Osage galloped back past Charles, shouting in pidgin, “Me find. Me find.” Dutch Henry eyed the trail ahead. Charles nudged Satan to follow the big man’s horse. Several of the stray dogs frolicked along too, leaping and barking.

  It was a find, all right. Clear sign of the Indian party, as big as Corbin said, with no marks of travois. Braves, then. On a last raid or hunt. The trail continued on through the level, treeless country in a southeasterly direction.

  Now there was impromptu singing as they advanced—“Jine the Cavalry” and other Army ditties. Everyone felt warmer, and they had the prospect of an engagement, not just an endless advance through snow. Old Bob kept jumping in the air. He barked almost constantly.

  Toward the end of the day the land began to change again. From the level prairie, it sloped slightly downward in a long descent to a horizon-spanning stand of misty timber still miles away. Custer sent Griffenstein ahead with orders to find Elliott and stop his advance until the main column caught up. Elliott was to choose a rendezvous where there was running water and a supply of wood.

  Charles judged it to be about five in the afternoon when they reached the edge of the timber. His belly gurgled and contracted painfully. He was sure Satan was just as hungry; none of the horses had eaten anything since 4:00 a.m., hours ago, and Charles had munched only a piece of hardtack, which nearly broke a tooth before he got it softened with spit. He realized that the advance had become one of Custer’s ruthless forced marches.

  On and on they rode through the mazy timber. Darkness came, and renewed cold. The mushy drifts froze into a hard crust that crackled at each step the horses took; the night seemed alive with a sound like musketry. The dogs barked, sabers clinked, men cursed as the march went on past seven o’clock.

  Past eight.

  About 9:00 P.M., Charles saw an orange glow ahead. He circled a dark tree trunk and discerned several similar glows. He speeded Satan past the Osages to an expanse of treeless ground. A sentry leaped up to challenge him and Charles shouted, “General Custer’s column. Is this Elliott?”

  “Yes, we’re here.”

  “We found them,” he called over his shoulder. He heard cheering.

  Major Elliott’s three troops were resting along the steep sides of a stream. Taking advantage of the natural cover the banks afforded, small cooking fires were blazing on the south side. The column prepared to dismount and rest. The air of festivity reminded him of those first blithe days Whitelaw Reid described.

  Captain Harry Venable went riding along the line with the good news: “One hour. Saddles and bits off the horses.”

  The time seemed to fly. Charles dragged the horse furniture off his piebald, dried him as well as he could, and fed him the oats he was carrying. He fed Dutch Henry’s mount too, while his friend heated some coffee. That and hardtack was their sumptuous Thanksgiving feast.

  At ten sharp, the advance resumed without trumpet calls. Four abreast, the cavalrymen began to move down the steep bank, through the stream and up the other side. The snowfields glittered with a diamond liveliness; a brilliant moon shone.

  Little Beaver and another Osage led the column on foot. Because of the noise, the gunshot crackle of the snowcrust, the trackers stayed four hundred yards ahead of the first large group of riders which included the other Osages and the white scouts, all of whom were in single file. Custer rode with this group, surrounded by the noisy dogs.

  Charles walked Satan toward what appeared to be a large stump about five feet high. He was startled when the stump moved. Little Beaver had waited for them to catch up.

  “Village,” he said.

  Custer heard. “What’s that?” he exclaimed.

  “Village near.”

  “How far?”

  “Don’t know. But there is a village.”

  There were aspects of Indian tracking so entangled in mystery and second sight that Charles never tried to understand them. Gray Owl had displayed some of the same intuitions, and whites were foolish to disregard them. Custer didn’t.

  “Very good, Little Beaver. Back to your place. And quietly, quietly.” In the dark they heard a couple of troopers laughing and joshing. Custer wheeled out of line, almost trampling a couple of the dogs. Charles saw his blade-nosed profile against the dark moonlit sky. “No talking. From now on, I’ll cut down any man who speaks.”

  Charles had no doubt he’d do it. His nerves tightened up a notch. The uneasy feeling worsened. The advance continued, the black snake of horses and riders crawling over the moonlit snow without the wagons or the ambulance; Custer had left them behind with Quartermaster Lieutenant Bell.

  They seemed to be in a region of ridges that ran east and west, parallel to one another, with narrow valleys between. Saddles creaked. The snow crackled. Far away, a wolf howled; another answered. Once Charles looked back and was almost deluded into seeing buffalo sitting upright on the horses. The bulky overcoats of the troopers created the illusion.

  Again they came on the two Osages waiting for the main column. “Smell fire,” Little Beaver announced.

  Custer controlled Dandy after the horse nearly stepped on Blucher. “I don’t.”

/>   “Fire,” the Indian insisted.

  “Go see. Griffenstein, Main, go with him. Arm yourselves.”

  Charles peeled off his mittens. He yanked the scarf from his face so he could lick his lips, stiff as wood and lacerated by painful cracks. He reached over his shoulder and pulled the Spencer from the sling. With Little Beaver striding between them, the two white men walked their horses across another snowy expanse to some widely spaced trees.

  “There’s something,” Charles exclaimed softly. He pointed to an orange smudge, smaller and dimmer than those spied when they found Elliott. Dutch Henry drew both his revolvers and cocked them. Charles held his Spencer ready.

  Black wraiths breathing small clouds of transparent mist into the moonlight, the scouts walked their horses into the trees. Charles smelled the smoke distinctly. A fire, all but gone out, built in the lee of some thorny shrubs.

  Satan smelled something strange and didn’t like it. Charles patted the piebald to quiet him. When he stirred the fire with a stick, the embers billowed; the light helped him see the ground roundabout. It was a churned mess of snow and mud. He stepped in a barely hardened pod of manure. The aroma mingled with that of the fire.

  “A pony herd tried to graze here most of the day, Henry. I’d stake my life that this fire was built by the boys tending the ponies.”

  “So we can’t be but two, three miles from the village?”

  “That’s right. But whose village?”

  “Does it make any damn difference?”

  The question threw him. The uneasiness returned. Little Beaver began a shuffling dance step, mumbling and chanting under his breath. He sensed engagement soon.

  “I’ll give the general the good news,” Dutch Henry said, turning his horse’s head.

  Custer sent the two scouts forward again, walking. Charles’s mouth felt like a dry gully. His pulsebeat leaped in his throat so hard it almost hurt. Where the trees thinned out, the moon shone on a strip of snowy ground with a sharply defined irregular edge.