by Brown, Dee
Donovan began laughing almost uncontrollably, then started singing. “ ‘Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing!’ Heck, I forget the words of that old song.”
“No matter,” Pliley said with pretended disgust. “I’ve heard mules bray better than you sing.”
As soon as the sun was down they began moving southward again, walking in long strides, keeping an alert watch along the fading horizon. Donovan was nauseated from the rotten horsemeat, and he could not resist drinking the remainder of his water. He was barely able to keep it down. In a few minutes he was thirsty again. Several times he was certain he could hear a stream running, and would urge Pliley to hurry forward in the darkness, but midnight passed before they reached a river. At the stream’s edge, they stripped and waded in, gulping long swallows of the bitter-tasting water, and then bathing their swollen feet.
Pliley decided they were on a fork of Smoky Hill River. “If we take a more westward course,” he said, “we should hit the stage road somewhere around Cheyenne Wells. But if the coaches aren’t running, we’ll have a long track to go by foot.”
“How far is it?”
“Maybe fifteen or twenty miles.”
“Let’s go,” Donovan said.
He felt much better after bathing in the river, and for the next hour kept moving steadily. Thick clouds gradually screened out the stars, and in the pitch blackness he occasionally stumbled into beds of prickly pears. Once he had to stop and brush thorns out of his moccasins. “Al, are you sure we’re heading in the right direction? I can’t see a star or a landmark anywhere.”
Pliley pulled up a handful of grass, rolled it in his fingers, smelled and tasted it. “Did you ever notice the grass is different as you go west into Colorado Territory? I think we’re going right.”
Donovan grunted, and started walking again, dreading the next painful sting of cactus plants which seemed to be lying in wait for him in the darkness. A cold north wind made him shiver, and he felt a few drops of icy rain against his face.
Just before dawn they saw a dim light far ahead, and a few minutes afterward they stumbled into the stagecoach trail. The light was from a lantern hanging in a one-room stage station. As they were passing the corral a herder challenged them. Donovan explained who they were and where they were going. “All we want is a drink of hot coffee, something to eat besides rotten horsemeat, and a place to wait for the eastbound stagecoach.”
“That’s our business here, mister. Catering to travelers.”
“Is the stage still running?” Pliley asked.
“Like a clock,” the herder answered proudly. “Eastbound for Fort Wallace due in at six in the morning. I’ll go wake up the station master. He does the cooking.”
The sleepy station master had hot coffee, saleratus biscuits, and bacon ready for them in an hour, and then they crawled into wall bunks. Donovan was sure he had barely closed his eyes when the herder awoke him with a shout that the stagecoach was arriving.
They rode the fifty miles to Fort Wallace in style, startling their three fellow passengers with accounts of the Indian fight on the Arickaree and the predicament of Major Forsyth and the scouts still trapped there.
Until he stepped off the stage at Fort Wallace, Donovan had forgotten his swollen, festering feet. He winced as he looked around at the empty parade ground and the deserted barracks. “Where is everybody?”
“Maybe they’re at noon mess,” Pliley guessed. “It’s about that time.”
They hobbled across the windy parade to the headquarters building and saw their first soldier—a guard posted beside the entrance steps. He was a thin pale-faced youngster who looked as if he had been dismissed too soon from the hospital. Donovan gave him a mock salute and led the way into the outer office. A gray-haired desk sergeant blinked in surprise.
“We have a message for Colonel Bankhead,” Donovan said.
“Lieutenant’s in there.” The sergeant’s voice was unfriendly; he obviously disapproved of their scraggly beards and muddy, grease-stained clothing.
The lieutenant’s name was Hugh Johnson. He remained seated when Donovan handed him the folded message. After explaining that Colonel Bankhead was out on patrol, he began reading Forsyth’s message. His casual manner quickly changed to alertness. “This is a serious matter. Sergeant!”
The sergeant came in immediately, and in rapid fire order Lieutenant Johnson ordered him to dispatch a telegram to General Sheridan’s headquarters, to send a courier out to find Colonel Bankhead, and then to summon every able-bodied male civilian he could find on the post. The gray-haired sergeant said, “Yes, sir,” but he went off shaking his head as though the lieutenant had ordered him to perform impossible tasks.
“Sit down.” The lieutenant motioned Donovan and Pliley to a bench against the wall. “You boys look tuckered out.” His face turned solemn. “We’re extremely short of troopers right now. Any good-sized war party could ride right through us. That’s why the colonel went out on patrol this morning—he wants to make a show of strength.”
“He’s got no cause to worry,” Pliley said. “Hostiles are all up north, trying to finish off Forsyth’s Scouts.”
Lieutenant Johnson tapped the desk top with his pencil. “You’ve had it rough, I know.”
Donovan wondered how the lieutenant could know if he hadn’t been there. “Stilwell and Trudeau didn’t make it through, I guess.”
“Who—” The lieutenant glanced at Forsyth’s message again. “The two other messengers Major Forsyth sent ahead of you—no, we’ve seen no trace of them.”
A few minutes later the sergeant returned with a telegraph message. As he handed it to the lieutenant, he reported that a courier was on the way to find Bankhead’s patrol, and that he had another man out rounding up civilians.
Lieutenant Johnson read the telegram hastily. “Wait a minute. Now I want you to write out a special order, authorizing the quartermaster to pay civilian volunteers a hundred dollars to carry dispatches for the relief of Major Forsyth’s Scouts.”
“A hundred dollars, sir?” The sergeant’s face expressed utter disbelief.
“That’s what General Sheridan says. ‘Spare no expense of men, money, and horses.’ I’ll need several good riders who know the country north of here. We haven’t much time to reach the cavalry companies up there and start them moving to Forsyth’s relief.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant made a note on a piece of paper and went out, closing the door behind him.
Donovan stood up. “I’m one of your volunteers, Lieutenant.”
The lieutenant stared at him. “You mean you’re willing to start back there right now? In your condition, can you sit a saddle?”
“For a hundred dollars—”
Pliley said: “I can use a hundred, too, Lieutenant. Nothing wrong with us but sore feet. We’ll need horses.”
“Quartermaster can supply saddle-broken mules, that’s all.”
“We’ll go muleback then.”
Outside, a door banged and a husky urgent voice penetrated the thin wall. Pliley’s head turned to one side. “Sounds like—”
“Jack Stilwell!” Donovan shouted, and leaped toward the office door, flinging it open.
Stilwell was grinning broadly, but Trudeau looked as if he were ready to collapse. The scouts embraced, danced, slapped each other’s backs, and exchanged friendly insults. The lieutenant looked on patiently until Stilwell at last remembered to hand him his message. He reported his meeting with the two Negro couriers en route to Captain Carpenter’s camp at Lake Station.
The lieutenant nodded approvingly. “That’s the first good news of the day. If the couriers reach him, Captain Carpenter may have his troopers on the way by morning. We’ll take no chances, though. I’ll start scouts riding north on all military trails within the hour.” For the first time since Donovan and Pliley had entered the room, Lieutenant Johnson made a motion to rise. He lifted a pair of crutches from behind the desk, and Donovan was surprised to see that his left leg was swath
ed in bandages. He put no weight on it as he crossed the office to the outer door.
During the next hour, Donovan was further amazed at how quickly Lieutenant Johnson organized two courier parties. He first sent Al Pliley and another man off toward Frenchman’s Fork to search out a company patrolling that area. Then for the ride to Captain Carpenter’s cavalry, he put Donovan in command, assigning him three men and eight mules, so they could travel day and night by regular changes of mounts.
Jack Stilwell was eager to go with Donovan, but the lieutenant ordered him to remain at Fort Wallace until Colonel Bankhead returned. “Trudeau is too used up to go anywhere, Stillwell, and the colonel may want you as a guide.”
As Donovan and his three scouts mounted their mules to start the long ride, Stilwell was there to shake his hand.
“We’ve been lucky so far, Donovan,” he said. “Let’s keep it lucky.”
“Sure, Jack.” Donovan grinned. “I reckon we kind of low rated you back there on the island.”
“Forget it. I’ll beat you back there.”
Donovan slapped his mule into motion. “Don’t bet on it.”
Stilwell called after him: “Say, if you see a friend of mine in Captain Carpenter’s company, tell him hello. Name’s Rube Waller!”
19
Trooper Reuben Waller
September 23
TROOPER REUBEN WALLER WAS riding as right flanker for Captain Carpenter’s 10th Cavalry troop which had been on the march since dawn. They had broken camp near Cheyenne Wells, and were following a long northwesterly bend of the stage road.
Ever since Waller had delivered Jack Stilwell’s message and map to Captain Carpenter, the captain seemed to be in a fretful, impatient mood. That morning he had roused his men out of their blankets in chilly darkness, cut the breakfast hour in half, and had been pushing the column so hard all morning that horses and men were beginning to show signs of exhaustion. Waller was hopeful that any minute now the captain would call a long halt for nooning.
Every two or three minutes, Waller turned in his saddle and slowly scanned the eastern horizon from north to south. The sky was cloudy but the air was clear except where strong gusts of wind kicked up little swirls of dust here and there. He studied each dust swirl carefully until it disappeared; then he pulled his horse into line with the column again.
Reuben Waller was proud to be a member of the 10th Cavalry, especially Troop H which Captain Carpenter called “the cock of the roost.” Sometimes Waller found it hard to believe all the things that had happened to him in six years. He marked the beginning of his new life with the day he rode off with his master from the big Mississippi plantation house. He was a slave then and was going to help his master fight the Yankees. He remembered he had been scared and excited, but after the first battle he grew accustomed to the noise and confusion. He reckoned he must have survived twenty-nine battles in all; then his master was captured somewhere in Virginia.
After that Reuben Waller wandered around until one day he heard the war was ended, and it seemed as if just about everybody white and black was heading west to make their fortunes. By hiring out to drive wagon teams, he reached Fort Leavenworth, and when he heard that a captain named Carpenter was recruiting Negroes for cavalry service he decided to apply. “I was not a regular soldier, understand, sir,” he told Captain Carpenter, “but I rode with the Confederate cavalry through twenty-nine battles.”
Captain Carpenter had laughed and asked him if he rode with Forrest or Jackson.
“With both generals, sir,” Waller replied truthfully.
“Then we were probably shooting at each other in the Shenandoah,” Carpenter declared, and signed him up as a private in the U.S. 10th Cavalry.
A little more than a year ago, Waller remembered, he had started soldiering in a blue uniform. Now he glanced again with pride at the weary but cleanly aligned column moving on his left—seventy men with black faces, and a scattering of white civilian scouts. The thirteen wagons and single ambulance in the rear were beginning to kick up considerable dust.
The dust reminded him to scan the eastern horizon again, and this time there was something different about it, a tiny concentration of movement that was more than a sand swirl. For a minute or two he stared at the blur of motion until he was certain it was several horsemen riding fast. Then he placed two fingers between his teeth, shrilling a whistle, and when he saw that he had attracted the attention of Lieutenant Orleman, he swung his wide-brimmed hat above his head and pointed eastward. The lieutenant immediately spurred his horse forward to join Captain Carpenter, and a few moments later the captain signaled Waller to come in.
When Waller rode up beside him, the captain was still watching the oncoming riders through his field glass. “Not Indians,” he said, “but they’re not soldiers, either.” He handed Waller the field glass. “See if they’re the two scouts who gave you Major Forsyth’s map.”
Waller focused the glass, trying to recognize the faces through the dust. There were four men on four mules and leading four, but he was soon satisfied that neither Jack Stilwell nor the old Frenchman, Trudeau, was with them. “No, sir,” he replied. “But I think I’ve seen one of them before, a muleskinner from the quartermaster’s at Fort Wallace.”
Captain Carpenter breathed out a long sigh. He was a heavy-set man with a wide flowing brown mustache bleached by the sun. He took the glass back and for another minute held it on the riders. Then he turned to Lieutenant Orleman. “I hope Colonel Bankhead’s not ordering us back there. We’re Major Forsyth’s only hope.” He sighed again. “All right, Private Waller, ride out and escort them in.”
Waller moved away at a trot, gradually increasing pace to an easy gallop. In a few minutes he was in hailing distance, and he heard the lead rider calling: “Captain Carpenter’s 10th Cavalry?” Waller shouted back that it was Carpenter’s cavalry, and slowed his tired mount, letting the mules close the distance.
“I’m Jack Donovan,” the lead rider said, “with a message for Captain Carpenter.”
Waller nodded politely and wheeled his horse, leading them in at a brisk trot. On the way in, Donovan asked him if the captain had received the verbal message sent by Jack Stilwell. Waller showed his teeth in a big grin, and replied that he had been the messenger.
“Then why is the captain still marching on the stage road? He ought to be bearing more to the north.”
“You’d better ask the captain that question, Mr. Donovan,” Waller replied good-naturedly. “Captain Carpenter don’t confide his plans with privates like me.”
A few minutes later, Donovan was asking Captain Carpenter the question, and Carpenter replied gruffly that the map sent by Stilwell was rather sketchy, and that because of his wagons he wanted to stay on a well-beaten trail as long as possible before cutting across rough country. “See here, Donovan, or whatever your name is, I’m just as anxious as you are to get to Major Forsyth’s position. He and I served together in the Shenandoah.”
Donovan finished wiping dust off his beard with a bandanna; then he casually presented the message written by Lieutenant Johnson at Fort Wallace. Carpenter unfolded the paper, fumbled in his blouse pockets for a minute, finally cried out in exasperation as he passed the message to Lieutenant Orleman. “Confound it, Lieutenant, I must have stowed my reading spectacles in my pack. Read it to me.”
Lieutenant Orleman began reading in a loud parade-ground voice, his accent slightly German:
The commanding officer directs you to proceed at once to a point on the Dry Fork of the Republican, about seventy-five or eighty miles north, northwest from this point, thirty or forty miles west by a little south from the forks of the Republican, with all possible dispatch.
Two scouts from Major Forsyth’s command arrived here this evening and bring word that he (Forsyth) was attacked on the morning of Thursday last by an overpowering force of Indians (seven hundred) who killed all the animals, broke Major Forsyth’s leg with a rifle ball and severely wounded him in the groin
, wounded Surgeon Mooers in the head and wounded Lieutenant Beecher in several places. Two men of the command were killed and eighteen or twenty wounded.
HUGH JOHNSON
First Lieutenant, 5th Infantry,
Acting Post Adjutant.
When the lieutenant finished, Captain Carpenter was gazing northward across the dry plain. He sniffed, and turned to Donovan. “It’s worse even than I thought. Can you lead us back there by tomorrow night?”
“I can try,” Donovan replied. “With your wagons it might take another day.”
“To save Major Forsyth I must take the risk of dividing my troop,” Carpenter said gravely. He glanced at Waller, who had pulled his horse off to one side awaiting further orders.
“Trooper Waller, ride back down the column and ask Dr. Fitzgerald and all civilian scouts to report up here to me. And Lieutenant Orleman, you will order the men to dismount and loosen saddles. We’ll halt for twenty minutes to eat and rest.”
In less than five minutes, Waller returned with Dr. Fitzgerald and the scouts. Everyone was dismounted now, the troopers reclining, some of them beginning to chew their cold rations. The scouts, the surgeon, and two lieutenants gathered around Captain Carpenter. Waller sat cross-legged nearby, listening to them plan a fast march to relieve Major Forsyth.
“Food and medicine are Forsyth’s desperate needs,” the captain was saying. “Donovan assures me the men are well fortified on their island and have enough ammunition to keep the hostiles at bay for several days. But rations are exhausted, the surgeon is unconscious, perhaps already dead, and there is no medicine for the festering wounds of some twenty men. To get enough food and medicine there will require at least one vehicle. I propose using the ambulance which is much faster than a wagon. To get the ambulance and Dr. Fitzgerald through the besieging Indians will require a heavily armed escort. Now, there are seventeen of you scouts. Eight of you enlisted at Sheridan’s headquarters for service with Forsyth’s Scouts but arrived too late at Fort Wallace to join the expedition. The other nine were enlisted for miscellaneous duties out of Wallace. I’m asking all of you to volunteer for this extra-hazardous duty.”
