North and South

by John Jakes

  The paymaster’s detail passed a little bakehouse with a clapboard roof. Two sweaty, bare-chested bakers stood in the shadow of a wall, never moving except to raise and lower their pipes in greeting. As the smell of hot bread gave way to that of manure, the dragoon sergeant rode up to Charles.

  “The stables are there, sir. Those two log buildings.”

  Charles returned the salute and trotted ahead. He turned into the nearest building, which was open at each end and empty except for the horses. A moment later, a long-striding, lanky man came through the far entrance.

  The man wore bleached cord pants and a flannel shirt decorated with small wood pickets. A sheath knife hung on his left hip, and on the other a Holster Pistol—the cavalry nickname for Colt’s 1848 Army Model revolver. Charles owned a similar gun, a six-shot .44 with beautiful walnut grips and a brass trigger guard. He had also paid for a couple of optional extras: a detachable shoulder stock with a sling ring and a cylinder with a decorative engraving of dragoons in combat with Indians. A cavalryman’s revolver was a prized and highly personal possession.

  The man scrutinized Charles. He was about forty and had a long, pleasant face partly hidden by a red beard the sun had bleached to copper. In the lobes of both ears he wore brass rings, pirate style. Some civilian attached to the Indian agency, Charles presumed. Or maybe the fellow was the post sutler. Charles dismounted and addressed him brusquely.

  “Direct me to the adjutant’s office, if you please.”

  The man pointed the way. For some unfathomable reason his eyes were simmering all at once.

  “Where can I find Captain Bent?”

  “In his quarters nursing a bad case of dysentery.”

  Tired and irritable, Charles slapped Palm’s rein against his pants leg. “Then who’s in charge of K Company?”

  “I am, sir.” The man’s eyes froze him. “First Lieutenant Lafayette O’Dell.”

  “First—?”

  “Stand at attention, sir!”

  The shout, so reminiscent of thousands at West Point, automatically drove Charles into the correct braced position. He saluted, his face turning red.

  O’Dell took his time returning the salute. He eyed Charles with what the latter took to be hostility. “My apologies to the lieutenant,” Charles began. “I’m—”

  “The new second,” the other broke in. “Been expecting you. Academy man?”

  “Yes, sir. I graduated in June.”

  “Well, the captain’s also an Academy man. It’s a regular damn club in this regiment. I’m afraid I’m not a member. I’m a plain Ohio farm boy who graduated from plow horses to cavalry nags. The captain isn’t very keen on line duty, especially out here. But I like it just fine. If you want the respect of the men, you’d better like it too.”

  “I will, sir.” Charles all but swallowed his words, the same way he was struggling to swallow his embarrassment and anger.

  “Let me tell you one more thing about serving in Texas. You’d better learn to dress for it. That fancy coat isn’t practical for long patrols, and neither is that sword you’re wearing. The hostiles don’t sit and wait for a saber charge. By the time you draw that pig sticker, they’ll swarm all over you and lift your hair. The captain doesn’t like those facts of life either, but he has to put up with them.”

  Charles lost the battle to keep his temper. His eyes were fiery as he whispered, “Thank you for the advice. Sir.”

  Suddenly, O’Dell’s stern look disappeared. He chuckled and sauntered forward.

  “That’s better. For a minute I thought they’d sent us a second with no gumption. Let me help you unsaddle that horse. Then you can report and present your compliments to Captain Bent—provided he isn’t squatting on his china pot. Don’t laugh. The water does that to every newcomer.”

  Grinning, Lieutenant O’Dell held out his callused hand.

  “Welcome to the north part of Texas or the south part of hell, I’m not sure which.”

  Charles was thankful the first lieutenant wasn’t as truculent as he had seemed at first. Like all other troops, Company K had only three officers, and Charles could imagine the problems if they disliked one another. It was already clear that the troop commander was unpopular.

  By the time Palm was stabled, rubbed down, and fed, Charles knew a good deal about O’Dell. He had been born and raised near Dayton, Ohio, and at fourteen had lied about his age in order to enlist. His current rank was a brevet; being a second lieutenant at forty was just about what an officer who lacked West Point training could expect.

  O’Dell accompanied Charles to a spot near a drab building constructed of jacal—upright poles chinked with clay mortar. He pointed out the captain’s quarters, a door at the end from which the paint was peeling. Just then another troop cantered in, its red and white swallow tail guidon snapping. Only three of the troopers wore regulation uniforms; the rest looked much like O’Dell. Charles remarked that no one had prepared him for Camp Cooper’s relaxed style of dress.

  “What you want,” O’Dell said, “is anything that suits the weather and keeps you free to move fast. Find it, steal it—and don’t let the captain talk you out of it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll take your advice.” He almost expected there’d be more, and there was.

  “I’d go see the captain right away if I were you. I sort of compare it to slopping pigs. The sooner you get it over with, the sooner you can go back to things that are more pleasant.”

  An hour later, having presented his orders and located his own tiny room, Charles knocked on the door O’Dell had indicated. A gruff voice bade him come in.

  The troop commander’s quarters consisted of a single large room. Half of the far wall was nothing more than an open window with a canvas blind rolled up at the top.

  If O’Dell didn’t quite resemble the typical mental picture of a cavalryman, Captain Bent resembled it even less. He was a soft, whalelike man about Orry’s age. He had restless little eyes and skin that had turned pink and blistered, rather than browning in the Texas sun. Charles’s immediate reaction was negative.

  Instead of a uniform, Bent wore a quilted dressing gown over a singlet that showed between the open lapels. The quilted material of the gown was sweated through under the arms and down the back.

  “I have been here four months” Bent complained as soon as Charles presented his compliments. “I should be over this damnable malady. But it keeps recurring” The captain gestured at a footlocker piled with books. “You may sit down if you wish.”

  “Thank you sir, but I’d prefer to stand. I’ve been in the saddle a long time today.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The sight of the books intimidated Charles—as did the odd look in Bent’s black eyes. The captain took the only chair, uttering a long sigh. “I regret that you find me in such straits.”

  “The first lieutenant prepared me, sir. I’m sorry that you’re—”

  “Ah, you’ve met O’Dell,” the other interrupted. “We’re both from Ohio, but we have nothing else in common. Sets a fine example, doesn’t he? Sloppiest officer I’ve ever seen. What’s worse, all the men ape him. Major Thomas informed me that if I was too strict about dress regulations, I’d have a mutiny on my hands. Captain Van Dorn seconded the opinion. I was virtually ordered to condone an unmilitary appearance. Imagine!”

  The outburst had a snarling quality. Bent’s eyes were ringed with fatigue circles, like charcoal smears above the blistered pink of his cheeks. Charles cleared his throat.

  “In any case, sir, I’m sorry you’re ill.”

  “In this godforsaken place, even illness is a diversion.”

  Desperate to break the tension, Charles forced a pleasantry. “If dysentery’s a diversion, I’ve been told that I’ll probably be diverted.”

  Unsmiling, Bent said, “Pray you get nothing worse. Some newcomers contract stomach ulcers. Some never recover.”

  He lumbered to the open side of the room and gazed out, swabbing his sweaty throat w
ith a kerchief. “We have all sorts of charming entertainments at Camp Cooper—named, incidentally, for the adjutant general with whom I served before I had the misfortune to come to this sinkhole.” He pivoted to face Charles. “How do you find Texas?”

  “So far, I like it.”

  “You must be mad. No, you’re Southern, aren’t you? Amounts to the same thing—” Bent blinked. “Here, don’t bristle so. I was merely making a little jest.”

  “Yes, sir.” The reply had a forced, strained sound, but Charles couldn’t help it.

  Bent returned to his chair and sank down with another exhausted sigh. “As you may have surmised, I didn’t request this duty, and I loathe it. I am not by inclination a line officer. My forte is military theory.” A gesture at the books. “Are you interested in that?”

  A little color was slowly returning to Charles’s face. “At the Academy I found the subject difficult, sir.”

  “Perhaps some private study would be useful and enjoyable for both of us.”

  Bent’s darting eyes swept over Charles’s face, making him nervous again. Courtesy demanded an answer, but he refused to say more than, “Yes, sir, perhaps.”

  “Heaven knows there’s a need for intellectual stimulation on this post. Duty at Camp Cooper consists of nearly equal parts of bad food, wretched weather, occasional forays against ignorant Indians, and pursuit of deserters driven away by loneliness or the lure of gold. The choices for leisure activity are even less attractive. The main ones are drinking and wagering on cockfights. If your temperament inclines you to cohabit with squaws, the French pox is also available.”

  The captain licked his lips. Charles had the eerie feeling that, in a curious and convoluted way, Bent was asking whether he liked women. With care, he said:

  “I doubt I’ll have much time for that, sir.”

  “Good.” Bent’s gaze slid to the lower part of Charles’s face. The younger officer found this visual inventory distinctly unsettling. “Gentlemen always have other means of relieving the tedium.”

  He sighed once more. “I suppose we are expected to endure the boredom and hardship without complaint. We’re career officers and the frontier must be defended. I accepted this post only because turning it down might have been held against me later. I should imagine Colonel Lee felt the same way, given his background.”

  What a presumptuous peacock, Charles said to himself. Rather than funny, he found it vaguely frightening that Bent compared himself to the Army’s foremost officer. The captain cleared his throat.

  “I thank you for the courtesy of your call, Lieutenant. I believe I should rest now. Oh, by the way. Are you aware that K Company was recruited in and around Cincinnati? A majority of the men are Ohioans. We shall try not to hold it against you that you happen to come from a less enlightened region.”

  On the point of saying something foolhardy, Charles fought the impulse. Bent was deliberately baiting him, as a test of how well he held his temper—or failed. What word had Fitz Lee used? Devious. It was well chosen.

  “Just another little jest, Lieutenant Main. You’ll find I’m fond of them. There is but one kind of factionalism in this troop. It is the kind which occurs naturally in the Army. You may put the needs and wishes of your men first or, alternatively, those of your commander. I needn’t tell you which choice will better serve your career and your future. Dismissed.”

  Charles saluted and left. The moment he stepped into the sunshine and closed the door, he shivered. Bent’s warning had been unmistakable. If he became the captain’s toady, he’d have an easy time of it, but if he allied himself with the men—and, by inference, with O’Dell—he’d suffer.

  He recalled his favorable impression of O’Dell and asked himself whether Bent had issued his warning from strength or from weakness. The latter, Charles suspected. The captain probably feared his first lieutenant.

  Well, it didn’t matter. Charles already knew where he stood, and it was not with the fat misfit who lived behind the peeling door.

  Handsome young man, that cousin of Orry Main’s, Elkanah Bent thought after the door closed. Almost too attractive. His good looks could divert Bent from the objective. Still, there might be a way to blend pleasure and vengeance. One never knew.

  With a groan he rushed behind a cheap paper screen that concealed one corner of the room. He emerged ten minutes later, thinking of how much he hated Texas. Since arriving at Camp Cooper he had lost over twenty pounds. His spine and thighs constantly hurt from all the damned horseback riding, although with the weight loss he was getting better at it. Now, once again, intestinal pain was added to his woes.

  And yet—today had been auspicious. His plan was working.

  Being ordered to Texas had come as a shocking surprise. He could have called on his contacts to help him get the orders changed, but he didn’t. He knew that if he appeared reluctant to accept the assignment, it might create an unfavorable impression in the minds of certain of his superiors. That, he definitely did not want at this stage in his lagging career.

  Still, the orders upset him so badly that he left his desk in the War Department and went on a three-day binge. Twice during it he awakened to find sluts in his bed; one was colored. A third time he was surprised to discover a snoring Potomac bargeman—a boy, really—whom he dimly remembered paying. Bent had long ago discovered strong drives within himself. They almost matched the strength of his ambition. He preferred the companionship of women, but he could take pleasure from almost any flesh that offered itself.

  Once he had forced himself to accept the idea of going to Texas, he had set to work to make the tour rewarding in another way. The West Point graduation roll revealed that Brevet Lieutenant Main was scheduled to join the mounted service. Since the adjutant general’s office handled personnel matters for the entire Army, it was not difficult for Bent to arrange Charles Main’s posting to the Second Cavalry.

  Bent’s hatred of Orry Main and George Hazard had never diminished. And if he couldn’t strike directly at the two men who had hurt his career, he would be satisfied to take revenge on their relatives—starting with the young officer now under his command.

  He would await the opportune moment.

  44

  AS BENT HAD SAID, ABOUT three-quarters of the enlisted men of Company K hailed from Ohio. The rest were recent immigrants. German, Hungarian, Irish—a typical mix for almost any unit in the Army.

  The troopers treated O’Dell differently from Charles and the captain. All three officers were obeyed, but the first lieutenant had the respect and even the friendship of his men. Charles determined to win that same kind of respect. Friendship could take care of itself.

  During his fourth week on the post he discovered one of his men missing from morning formation. He found the fellow, a recent immigrant named Halloran, drunk as a tick in the stables. He ordered Private Halloran to go to his bunk and sleep it off. Halloran swore and pulled a knife.

  Charles dodged the clumsy slash, disarmed Halloran, and flung him into the watering trough outside. Halloran climbed right out and charged. Charles hit him four times—twice more than was probably necessary, but the trooper had a wild look in his eye. Charles then personally hauled the semiconscious man to the guardhouse.

  An hour later he sought out the troop first sergeant, a stub-nosed eighteen-year veteran of the mounted Army, Zachariah Breedlove.

  “How is Halloran?” Charles asked.

  “Dr. Gaenslen said he has a broken rib—sir.” The slight pause before the final word was typical of Breedlove’s professional insolence. He was older and much more experienced than most of the officers, and he never wanted them to forget it.

  Charles rubbed his chin. “Guess I shouldn’t have hit him so hard. I thought he was out of control.”

  “Well, sir—with all due respect—you’re dealing with soldiers here, not nigger slaves.”

  “Thank you for explaining that,” Charles replied in an icy way. He walked off.

  Later when he calmed do
wn, he realized the significance of the incident. First Sergeant Breedlove, and no doubt most of the other men, distrusted him because he was a Southerner. He might never be able to win their trust. The thought discouraged him, but he was not about to give up.

  Every morning the bugler sounded reveille at five before six. For a change Charles didn’t mind getting up early. The Texas autumn was beautiful and cool, the dawn skies the clearest and purest blue he had ever seen. It seemed to him that he had never tasted anything as delicious as the cook’s standard morning fare—hot Dutch-oven biscuits, beefsteak, stewed apples and peaches, and the familiar Army coffee.

  Mounted drill and practicing the manual of the saber and the carbine took up a good deal of the troop’s time. So did grooming the horses. To promote the Second as a crack unit, Davis had decreed that each company should have mounts of one color. Company K had nothing but roans, Van Dorn’s company of Alabama men nothing but grays—hence the name Mobile Grays. The men in Company K soon noticed Charles’s fine horsemanship, and it even drew some laconic words of approval from O’Dell. The first lieutenant offered his compliment in front of all the enlisted men—a small but important step forward, Charles thought.

  Occasionally an alarm from some settler out in the countryside sent a detachment on a forced ride, but Indian marauders were seldom found. Horses owned by settlers continued to disappear, however. And the Delaware trackers employed by the Army regularly found signs indicating the presence of raiding Yamparikas—northern Comanches—who were continuing to slip down from Indian Territory.

  Boredom remained the main enemy at the post. Charles dug and hoed a garden he intended to plant next spring. He bought a pair of scraggly hens and built a small house for them. And he finally, reluctantly, sat down to compose the letter he felt he owed Orry after all this time. He started by attempting some description of the Texas landscape, but he knew his words and his literary skills were inadequate. The first few paragraphs took so much thought and struggle that he brought the letter to a hasty close by promising to describe Camp Cooper and his odd company commander the next time he wrote.