by Judy Alter
"With their heads shaved," he added.
I shook my head, grateful that he had not called the riflemen to execute these men, as he had in Louisiana. Still, I suspected that such harsh discipline as shaving heads was not earning him the loyalty of his troops—and he needed that when and if a battle should come.
From October to February, eighty men deserted. Autie did not understand. "A man," he railed, "does not walk away from his post. How can they?"
"They were bored, like you," I suggested.
"I am not bored," he said indignantly. "I am preparing for an expedition against hostile Indians."
Autie didn't know much about Indians, and both he and I knew that, though we never talked about it. My ideas about savages were based on such frightening accounts that I preferred to comfort myself with the thought that the perpetrators of horrible deeds were still miles to the west of Fort Riley and might never be seen. The inevitable fact that Autie must one day march out in search of them was put far to the back of my mind.
If Autie did not know about Indians, he did know about alcohol. "Libbie, you know I've sworn never to touch liquor...."
Startled, I looked up from the bed, where I was propped up with my book. "Yes?"
"The men... they want me to drink with them." He twisted his hands around, unfastening the tight buttons of his collar.
"And you?"
"I've truthfully no desire to drink. But I wonder if they would accept me better. I have to do something about drinking on this post, and I'm not sure abstinence is the answer."
"Autie, I would not see you go back on your pledge."
He was at the side of the bed in an instant, kneeling before me. "Nor would I. I... I'm just seeking advice.... What are you reading? That trash again?" He had no patience with novels, which helped me pass the long days.
"It's a new novel," I said patiently.
"Garbage," he said derisively, and then, startling me, grabbed the book and threw it across the room. "Your father wouldn't approve," he said, and stalked from the room.
Autie was not angry at me—nor at the book—and I knew it; but he was frustrated. Some mornings, after he'd finished his morning duties at his desk, he'd pace the floor saying, "Libbie, what shall I do?"
"Read a good book," I suggested, quickly hiding yet another novel in my skirts.
"There is no company library worth looking at," he said. "I believe I'll start my memoirs."
"Autie, at twenty-eight, aren't you a little young to be writing your memoirs?"
"Only the first volume, Libbie, about the war. God, how I wish for another war."
My heart did a funny leap, for I knew the next war would be against Indians—and they were a fierce, new enemy who followed none of the rules of war known by the Confederates.
* * *
As Autie's impatience and dissatisfaction grew, so did the rift between us. A two-month trip on his part to Washington, D C., to testify before the examining board for his new commission was almost a welcome respite for me, though I would never have let him know that. And when he returned—bringing a trunk of gowns and material, stockings, ribbons, and hats—I greeted him as though he'd been gone for six months. But within a week we were testy with each other.
"You're thinking of Lane Murphy," he announced one day as he sat at his desk, and I, by his request, sat next to him, working on a small painting I'd begun.
"No," I said calmly, "I'm not. I'm trying to puzzle out that faint veil of purple over the landscape that you talked about in... whose paintings were they?"
"Bierstadt. You may not be thinking about him now, but you've thought about him recently."
"Of course I have, Autie. He was a friend, and he's pitiful in many ways. I worry about him."
"You could have stayed in Louisiana," he taunted, carried away with his own unhappiness.
"Autie, for heaven's sake... !" I stood up abruptly, only to be greeted by a growl from Byron, who slept at his master's feet.
I left the room and stood, despite the cold February air, on the veranda, staring at the endless plain. In my mind I could see Autie leading a troop of men off across that sea of grass, and the vision brought both sorrow and joy. Then I shivered, for I had always before fought desperately against being separated from him.
"Autie," I whispered, "you need a war."
* * *
One of the great blessings of Fort Riley to me was the company of other women. For so long in Louisiana and on the march, I'd been the only woman, save Eliza. In Texas, of course, I'd had my beloved Nettie for company, but we had all known that our duty in Texas was temporary. Now I was settled with a community of women, and I loved it—we gossiped and giggled together, often over poor Diana's latest suitor, as she was the only single lady among us except one nanny who had accompanied a family.
Mrs. Gibbs was a mother to all of us, sharing her experiences on the plains with those of us who were new, comforting some who were homesick and lonely but would not dare tell a husband, rejoicing with those who celebrated a birthday or an anniversary.
She had raised her children on the prairie, having been stationed there well before 1860, and sometimes she recalled stories of their childhood. One in particular proved a significant omen: she told us of a prairie fire in which she nearly lost her two young sons. A private had taken the boys to the river to fish and turned his back for just a minute—in that second, a fire leapt up between the man and the river, leaving the two boys screaming on the other side. Like all little children, they called for their mother and would, Mrs. Gibbs was sure, have rushed through that wall of flames to find her had not the brave soldier himself jumped the flames and pulled the boys into the river, where they were perfectly safe until the fire passed. It was not the first horror story I'd heard about fire on the prairie, but perhaps because it involved children, it was the most frightening.
Having women around me meant that I was also surrounded by children, and that proved an ever more difficult thing for Autie and me. Captain Jonathan Myers and his wife, Elizabeth, had two towheaded sons, about five and six years of age, who toddled along after their father every chance they got, and I often saw Autie eyeing his fellow officer wistfully. I knew he wished for youngsters with long blond curls who would follow him everywhere.
When Melissa Thompson whispered to us at tea that she was expecting, news traveled rapidly over the post and soon reached Autie.
"Good news for Thompson, isn't it?" he said casually.
"Yes," I replied. "Melissa is overjoyed."
He stared at me so long that I nearly began to squirm in my chair. "It must be hard on a woman to have a baby out here. I'm glad it's not you."
I wanted to ask, "Autie, are you sure?" but I was afraid to pursue the subject further.
Another time as we rode on the prairie, Autie said, "See, if we had children, you would not be as free to go everywhere with me."
"Nonsense." I laughed, and before I thought, said, "Eliza would take care of them." And then I wished I'd been silent, for if he was finding blessings in childlessness, I should let him be.
Annabelle Coker also became enceinte while at Riley, but she was nowhere near as overjoyed as Melissa Thompson. "I won't have a baby in this godforsaken place," she said plainly one day as all of the officers' wives sat in a sewing circle. "I don't know how you can be so calm about living out here."
"Lord love us, we have no choice," Mrs. Gibbs said good-naturedly. "We have to follow our husbands."
She put into my mind my father's last words to me, but Annabelle had no such sentimental memory, apparently, for she said harshly, "Well, mine may have to follow me."
Lieutenant James Coker was a puzzle to me, but an extremely pleasant man, perhaps a year or two younger than Autie. His wife, from a wealthy family back east, was spoiled and unhappy and generally making his life unpleasant, and yet I think he loved her deeply... or wanted to. Sometimes he would seek me out privately to ask advice about making Annabelle happy, until one day I fina
lly said to him, "You cannot make Annabelle happy. She will have to do that for herself."
He sighed. "Libbie, I wish she were more like you."
I thanked him for the compliment.
Two months after announcing her pregnancy, Annabelle Coker departed for her family home in New York. We all wished her well and voiced various good wishes for the baby and the safe return of both to Riley next year.
"That's hardly likely," she said ungraciously. "I shall not bring a baby out here. James will have to ask for a transfer."
After she left, with all of us a little relieved at her going, James seemed to me lonely, and I often went out of my way to talk with him.
"I hear you've asked for a transfer," I said brightly one evening at a gathering.
He looked weary. "No, Annabelle told me to, but that doesn't mean I've done it."
Startled, I hardly knew what to say and decided silence might be best.
"I cannot let her run my life," he said, "and I'm not sure she'd be happy, even if I did ask for a transfer. I think all she wants is for me to go back and live in that mausoleum her family calls a home, and I can't do that. I don't know what shall become of us."
I felt a great pity for him. But James Coker remained a puzzle to me. Though he was increasingly friendly with me and relaxed in my company, he stayed aloof from the other officers. He never rode with us on our afternoons on the prairie, never joined the men when they drank, never took part in the general merriment and high jinks that went on.
"I think he reads a lot," volunteered Tom, somewhat scornfully.
Eyeing him across a room, Autie commented, "Reminds me of Lane Murphy," and then looked long and hard at me.
* * *
"More soup?" I asked the young officer to my right. Our table was crowded with officers, several of whom had just arrived, and a journalist who had come to see what life on the frontier was really like.
When the soup tureen was emptied, Eliza set the platter in front of Autie. From where I sat at the other end of the table, I could see that his expression first changed to surprise, then confusion, and finally he collapsed in one of his shoulder-shaking fits of laughter.
Curious beyond control, I stood up to get a better view and was rewarded with the sight of a tiny steak, hardly the size of a man's fist, afloat in the center of that huge platter. Blushing, I gazed about the table and would have offered my guests some apologies, except that Autie abhorred having me do that.
"Eliza!" he called, still laughing.
"Ginnel, don't you be complainin' about that steak. Them cattle stampeded this mornin', and nobody could get them back in time to kill them."
"Wise cattle," murmured Autie, who then did explain to our guests that in the fall we'd feasted on prairie chickens he'd shot on his hunting trips, but with that supply gone, we were dependent on government beef and ate a great deal of oxtail soup. "Please," he finished, "do the best you can with vegetables and bread and butter."
No one seemed to suffer unduly from our meager fare—no one except me, that is, for I suffered a terrible attack of domestic responsibility. Although Autie had been a perfect gentleman about the lack of meat—and the disappearance of potatoes the next day—I could not bear the possibility that he considered me less than efficient in putting food on his table. Nothing would do but that I was going to the little town near us for provisions. Normally Autie forbade me to go there because it was inhabited largely by outlaws and desperadoes. But I did not tell him where I was going. Instead, once he was away and busy, I set out for town with a driver and an ambulance. We crossed the river on the chain bridge.
To my dismay, when I returned, the chain bridge had been washed away, and the river, which had been fairly calm that morning, had turned into a roaring torrent, carrying earth and trees with it as it rushed downstream. For nearly two hours I sat on the riverbank, despairing over what to do, looking every once in a while with distaste at the potatoes and eggs I had risked so much to secure, watching with awe the power of the water. From where I sat, the buildings of the garrison were in plain sight—so near and yet so far.
"Libbie, we're not going to make it back before nightfall."
Startled, I turned to see James Coker riding up behind me. "James! I didn't know you were here."
"Didn't mean to startle you. I'd gone for a ride alone and thought to ford the river here... but I guess not. You best have your driver take you back to town. Mrs. James—her husband runs the mercantile store—will be glad to put you up overnight."
"Autie will be frantic!" I wailed.
"I'll see that word gets to him," he said reassuringly, and I didn't ask how he would cross the river if I couldn't. Mrs. James did indeed make me welcome, and the next morning I was down on the riverbank almost at the break of day. James Coker was there, too. Both of us were disappointed that the river had not subsided at all.
"I... I thought you'd returned to the post."
"I couldn't," he said, shrugging. "But I hollered across to a soldier and got word to Custer that you're safe."
"James, I must get across. I'll get the sergeant there to take me in his boat."
"Libbie, that's not a very good idea," he said deliberately.
"James, I will go with or without you," I said, doing all but stamping my foot in my impatience.
He dismounted and hitched his horse to the back of my ambulance. "Bring him when you can," he said to the driver, who carefully avoided looking at either of us. Then, turning to me, James asked, "One last time—I can't dissuade you from this folly?"
"Absolutely not." I stood firm, my chin jutting forward, I'm sure.
"It's dangerous, Libbie... more so than you realize."
"If the sergeant can take us..."
"Of course he'll take us if you tell him to—you're Custer's wife." With that James spread his hands helplessly, looked at me a minute, then walked over to the sergeant in charge of the boat. He acquiesced, as James predicted.
The wind blew so fiercely that it was difficult for the two men to hold the tiny boat near enough to the slippery landing to hand me in. Behind us, the wind rushed through the riverbank trees, causing their branches to creak and moan eerily.
"Can't steer," the sergeant told James, while I nearly held my hands over my ears. "We'll pole out to the middle best we can, then let the current take us to that bend down there."
"Just tell me what to do," James said, spray from the river already drenching him.
"Just take care of Mrs. Custer," the sergeant said, nodding to where I sat huddled in the rear of the boat. I closed my eyes to the wild rush of water and debris on all sides of us and tried to close my ears to the sound it made. Faintly over the roar came the voices of soldiers from the opposite bank shouting encouragement to our brave captain, who used his pole and all the energy he could muster to push away logs that threatened to swamp us.
When we got close enough to the other shore, James literally jumped into the air—while I held my breath—to catch the limbs of an overhanging tree. Clutching at branches and rocks, he pulled while the sergeant used his pole to push us toward the bank.
Within an hour I was safe in my own home—but not safe from Autie.
"You ordered a sergeant to do what?" he asked incredulously, pacing the perimeter of the library in his anger.
"I didn't order him—I asked him, and he was kind enough to agree."
"Kind enough! I don't know whether to commend the man or court-martial him. But I know that you will not be allowed out alone again. I can't trust you!"
"Autie, I only wanted eggs and potatoes...."
"For eggs and potatoes you risk your life, along with the lives of one of my enlisted men... and an officer." He swung around to face me. "And how did you happen to be with Coker, of all people?"
"He was in town. I met him coincidentally."
Autie gave me a long look, which spoke volumes. Rationally, he knew that I told the truth, for I'd never lied to him about anything, let alone a man. But th
e jealous, irrational part of Autie almost wanted to believe that he had been betrayed... even cuckolded, and I could see the two sides warring.
With the muscles in his jaw twitching in anger, he stormed out of the room.
"Miss Libbie?" Eliza's tentative voice brought me back to reality a few minutes later. "Where's them potatoes and eggs?"
"I left them in the ambulance," I said wearily. "They may be here in a day or two."
* * *
General Hancock, head of the Department of the Missouri, arrived with seven companies of infantry and a battery of artillery. He was to lead an expedition to threaten the Indians—though it was couched in far different terms—and Autie's Seventh Cavalry would be accompanying them.
For days, even weeks, I'd heard the sounds from the blacksmith's shop of the shoeing of horses and sharpening of sabers, seen the drilling on the parade ground outside the post, watched the loading of wagons about the quartermaster and commissary storehouses. An idiot would have known the Seventh was preparing to move out, and though inexperienced in cavalry affairs, I was no idiot.
Still, I had little idea of the dangers of Indian warfare, and Autie tried to hide the seriousness of the expedition from me.
"Those Indians see how many of us there are and how well equipped," he said, "and they'll walk the path of peace." Or, "We're going to council with the Indians, Libbie, not fight." Fourteen hundred men would be moving out, a vast expedition for the plains fighting forces.
In his effort to reassure me, Autie seemed to forget the differences between us. He grew less critical and more passionate, and I welcomed his advances eagerly, as I had when I was a bride, though the thought flickered through my mind that now Autie had a war—or almost the equivalent—and things were back on an even keel between us.
Neither of us slept the night before he left. Our passion rose to fever pitch, subsided, and then, sparked by the least little touch and fanned by our uncertainties, burst forth again, until I was left breathless and exhausted. In the quiet between storms, we talked.
"Libbie, I trust you, you know that, don't you?"
"Of course, Autie. Why would you not trust me?"
