Libbie

by Judy Alter

  He rocked me in his arms. "Oh, Libbie, I can't believe... I wrote you right away. It was a terrible accident.... I can't tell you how I felt...." Autie talked on at an accelerated pace, until at last I turned away from him. I knew he hadn't written the letter, and that if James Coker hadn't told me, I might never have known what had happened to Custis Lee. I never asked about the angry buffalo bull.

  * * *

  "Libbie, what is it?" Impatience tinged Autie's voice, for I'd jiggled his shoulder and punched his side until at last he'd roused from a sound sleep in the middle of the night.

  "It's lightning," I whispered.

  "Oh," he groaned, "thanks for telling me." He rolled over to go back to sleep.

  "Autie! Listen to the wind.... The tent pole is swaying like it won't last another minute." The tent pole was indeed weaving in the wind, and the tent flap rattled and swung loose at one end. I felt like a rag doll in a rag house.

  Grumpily he sat up and looked, then said soothingly, "It's just a Kansas storm, Libbie. This is the rainy season." But as he spoke, he was fumbling for pants and boots. At last, dressed, he said, "I'll go out and pound the tent pins in and check the tether ropes."

  I huddled in terror in the bed, which was now growing damp as the moisture-laden tent began to leak; outside I could hear Autie alternately pounding and shouting, and over it all, the roar of the wind and rain, the crash of thunder and crack of lightning. Lanterns appeared, and I knew men had come to help Autie. In the shadows cast by their lights, I could see them clinging to ropes to keep them from sailing off in the air—taking the tent with them—and trying desperately to keep the ridgepole steady by strengthening the poles. Then a corner of the tent tore away, seeming to take on a life of its own, and Autie rushed in, gathered me in his arms, blanket over my head, and rushed out just as the tent collapsed, the men still clinging to it and trying to guide its fall so that it would not collapse nearby tents.

  We ended the night sleeping in a neighboring Sibley tent, which, having no square corners to catch the wind, was more stable. When Autie carried me in, I saw several forms rolled in blankets and radiating out from the center like the spokes of a wagon wheel—this tent, fortunately, had a wooden floor. Autie and I were soon two more spokes in the human wheel, asleep in a trice. But there would be no more passion that night.

  Next morning I found myself alone, with a pitcher and bowl supplied for my toilette. My shoes were hopeless, so I was dropped into cavalry boots and carried to the mess tent, wearing a soaking-wet dress.

  "Kansas," I said to Autie, "has shown us enough."

  "I doubt it's through," he said wryly.

  * * *

  "Libbie," Autie said sternly, "there are Indians all around, even if you can't see any sign. You must not walk out from the post while I'm on scout."

  I had been at Fort Hays only two weeks, and already Autie and the cavalry were preparing to march; Eliza, Diana, and I would stay behind in the care of a handful of officers and soldiers who were being left to bolster defenses. I tried not to let Autie see my pleasure when I learned that James Coker was one of those to stay behind.

  "I promise," I said solemnly. "But, Autie, the Indians surely wouldn't come close to the fort."

  "I repeat, you know nothing about Indians," he said, and I wanted to ask how he'd gotten to be an expert in one brief expedition.

  The days dragged after Autie left, though I soon learned that he was right about the Indians. Twice the sentinels were driven into the fort by small bands of savages, and several times attempts were made to stampede the horses and mules that grazed about the post. These events, dreaded though they were, provided about the only excitement in our daily routine.

  But James Coker was a blessing to me. He spent long hours sitting in front of our tent talking, or walking around the fort with me, though we made its slight perimeter in no time at all, so small was Fort Hays.

  "What do you hear from Annabelle?" I asked the first afternoon we talked alone.

  "Not much. We're... ah, not in communication. 'Estranged' is the word, I guess." He laughed bitterly.

  "The baby?"

  "She lost it," he said harshly. "Blames it on Kansas, the army, and me, mostly me."

  "Oh, James, I am so sorry."

  He managed a rueful smile. "So am I.... I don't suppose I can ever say how sorry. But it wouldn't be good for a tyke to be raised between the two of us—me out here, and Annabelle hating my life, and all. I don't suppose we'll ever be together again."

  I thought of Autie and our differences, and they paled in the face of a relationship like that between James and Annabelle. Then, improperly, I wondered at their private life and concluded that it had not been as wild and wonderful as ours or they would have salvaged their marriage. Ah, to be young and think passion solves all problems! I felt sorry for James that he had not had the pleasure of a passionate marriage, but of course I said nothing—and probably blushed.

  As our talks increased, our closeness grew, and though I never talked to James Coker about the lack of passion in his marriage, we did talk about subjects generally avoided between men and women not married to each other. One was my marriage to Autie.

  "You and Armstrong are getting along better, I see," he commented.

  "Oh, you do?" I asked. "And how?"

  "You look less strained, less drawn, and Armstrong is less prickly. I didn't tangle with him for a week before they left."

  "Autie needs a war," I said, grinning and taking his arm companionably. "Danger improves his disposition."

  "And what does it do for yours?" he asked, putting his hand over mine, which rested inside his arm.

  "La, I've not been in danger, so I don't know. Autie always sees that I'm safe."

  James pulled away abruptly, withdrawing his arm and turning from me. "Yes," he said curtly, "he does."

  "James, what is it?"

  He whirled around to stare intensely at me. "Did you know that I was ordered to shoot you?"

  "Shoot me? Whatever are you talking about?" Had this man of whom I was so fond gone suddenly mad in front of me?

  "Shoot you," he repeated. "On that march from Harker, if we were attacked and I was certain the outcome would go against us, Armstrong ordered me to shoot you... in the forehead. An instant, painless death."

  "James!" I was unable to catch my breath, unable to think. "We really were in danger?"

  "Grim danger. But Armstrong's request isn't all that unusual, Libbie. It's a fairly common feeling among officers out here that they'd rather their wives were dead than captured."

  I could say nothing, though later I wondered if that was supreme love on Autie's part... or a careless toying with my life.

  Autie had been gone two weeks when James confessed that he loved me. "I've tried not to, Libbie, but.. well, there it is." He gave me one of his wry grins. "Will you run away with me?"

  I laughed aloud, delighted and flattered and very naive. "Where would we run away to?" My eyes swept the plains around us. "The Indians would get us, and then you'd shoot me."

  "Oh, no, never. I don't think I could have followed Armstrong's orders... and now I know I couldn't."

  "Then," I teased, "you'd let the Indians have me."

  "No," he said gallantly, "I'd see that the choice never came to that. Pack your valise."

  We were both joking, and yet there was a thread most serious beneath our banter. I took his arm again, and we walked in silence for a long time. I kept my eyes down, but sideways I was aware of him looking at me, and I wondered if the whole post was also aware.

  Diana twitted me about James, but as she was young and in love with a new officer a day, she took flirtations lightly. "Lieutenant Coker certainly enjoys your company, Libbie."

  "And I his," I replied lightly. "Autie has asked him to look after me, and he's doing an excellent job."

  Eliza took the whole thing much more seriously. "You mark my words, gonna be trouble the ginnel hears about that lieutenant and you," she warned.
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  "Bother, Eliza, he's simply helping me pass the time while Autie's gone."

  "Done passed too much, you ask me," she said grumpily. "You be careful, Miss Libbie."

  I thought that remarkable advice from one whose loyalty was to the general and not to his wife, or so I supposed.

  The most serious objection to my friendship with James came from Tom Custer, who had, in spite of his protests, been left behind when Autie marched out. Tom was angry at being left behind, angry because there were few other officers for him to carouse with and no liquor on post to spark that carousing. "Libbie," he said one day, "you best stay away from Coker. I know Autie always told you not to be too friendly with any officer."

  "Don't be silly," I said in a big-sister tone of voice. "Autie would be grateful to James for helping me pass the time."

  Tom gave me a dark look, and thereafter, sometimes, when James and I talked, I would see Tom staring at us from a distance.

  * * *

  Beyond the post the prairie wore the soft green of spring, and prairie flowers added bright touches here and there.

  "James, I would so love to go and pick some flowers," I said one afternoon after supper. "Couldn't we just walk out there a ways? The sentinels will always have us in view." My tone was coaxing, and I knew it.

  "Is this another swollen river, Libbie?" he asked, laughing. "All right, my love, if you wish to go, we'll go."

  I wandered among the blue and pink and red flowers, picking this and that until I had a nice bouquet, savoring the fresh air—the Kansas wind had gentled into a welcoming breeze—and loving being away from the post, while James lounged and watched me.

  "I wish dark would never come," I said. "I want to stay out here, today, forever!"

  "So do I," he said huskily. "But dark is coming, Libbie, and we have to get back. Come." He held out an arm, and as I took it, he put his other hand on my shoulder, turning me toward him. Then he bent his head to give me a gentle kiss, full of love and none of the demands of Autie's kisses. Without fully meaning to, I responded, until the kiss deepened in intensity and sent fire rushing through me. Had James not held both my arms firmly in front of him, I would have thrown them around his neck.

  "We must go," he said firmly. "But, Libbie... thank you. That was worth a lifetime."

  "James, I..."

  "Please," he said, "don't say anything."

  Dark falls fast on the prairie, and we had not gotten halfway back to the post before the shadows deepened into twilight, and the sentinels, who had once seemed so close—did they see us?—disappeared from sight. I could no longer make them out, but with my arm linked in James's I felt perfectly safe.

  Suddenly I saw a flash from the direction of the post, followed by a whistling sound that sang past our ears. While we stood puzzled, a second whiz and zip indicated another bullet, passing dangerously close.

  "Drop!" James commanded, throwing me to the ground. "We're being fired on. They think we're Indians."

  "Of course we're not," I said indignantly. "Tell them so!"

  "Keep your head down," he said sternly, pushing the back of my head with his hand. Then, raising his head only a slight bit, he halloed the post, saying, "This is Lieutenant James Coker—"

  A third barrage of gunfire was the answer.

  "I can't tell them from here. I'll have to creep up to the sentinels. Libbie, you must stay here, flat to the ground. Bury your nose in the grass."

  "I want to go with you," I wailed.

  "No—for several reasons. I may get shot, prime among them. And I can move faster without you."

  "How will you know where I am, if you leave me here?" I asked, well aware that at dark the prairie was indeed a sea upon which to be lost.

  "I'll know," he said, and then, tenderly, he kissed my forehead and inched away from me, cautioning once more, "Stay very quiet."

  And so, nose in the buffalo grass, I tried to melt into the prairie, thankful for my slimness. Yet my body seemed to rise above the earth in such a heap that even the dullest marksman could have hit it. My thoughts were a turmoil—if James was hit, no one would know that I was out here, and I would be until daybreak. That is, if Indians didn't find me—everyone knew they could see at night, even if we couldn't. And what if, in spite of his guarantees, James lost track of where I was? And through all this, the memory of his kiss burned, etched onto my mouth like acid because of my guilty thoughts of Autie.

  James rescued me, and the sentinels apologized profoundly, begging me not to tell the general they had fired on his wife.

  "I don't think I'll mention this to the general at all," I assured them, for reasons of my own.

  Awkwardly James escorted me to my quarters. Outside, he stammered, "Libbie... I..."

  "James," I said, my calm by now having returned, "let's not mention any of it."

  But our walks were over. James Coker and I were not quite comfortable with each other, though we watched one another furtively about the post. When I thought he wasn't looking, I studied James, knowing that he had not the fire and brilliance of Autie but that life with James would be smoother, calmer, even more secure. Then I would shake my head, for my future was committed. In the long run, I knew I loved Autie over James Coker.

  * * *

  "Mrs. Custer! Mrs. Custer! Make haste for your lives. It's a flood!" The frantic voice drew me out of a sound sleep, though Lord knows how I slept with the thunder and lightning crashing around us.

  "A flood?" I echoed stupidly.

  "Creek's risin' at an alarming rate," said the soldier. "You best be out of there right now."

  "One moment," I called, desperately reaching under my pillow for the clothes that I had hidden, hoping to protect them from the wetness all around us. It was useless—they were soaked and difficult to get into. At last—though it was probably only seconds—I scrambled out of the tent.

  With the next flash of lightning I saw that the creek—only a little trickle of water the night before—was level with the high banks. Good-sized trees had fringed its banks—now I could see only the tops of those trees. The water had risen some thirty-five feet in less than no time.

  "My kitchen!" Eliza screamed. "The river's takin' my kitchen."

  "Let it be," I called, rushing to pull her away from the threatened kitchen tent. "We can't save it, Eliza. Come!"

  "Lordy, Lordy, Miss Libbie. How's I gonna feed the ginnel now?"

  "How could you feed him if you were washed away in the stream?" I countered, and she did me the favor of grinning. Appalled as we were by the storm, neither of us yet realized how awful the tragedy was.

  Our sleeping tents, fortunately, were high enough on a rise to be safe, at least for the present. But a group of tents had been pitched on a bend in the crooked stream—the men had chosen that spot because of the circle of trees that edged the water. But now it was the worst possible location. The water swept over that strip of earth, creating a new island and marooning several men who were, one by one, swept into the torrent.

  Then, piercing our ears even over the uproar of the storm, came sounds that no one, once hearing, ever forgets—the despairing cries of drowning men. Eliza and I were both completely undone. As we ran up and down the bank, wringing our hands, she called to me, "Miss Libbie, what shall we do? What shall we do?" We tried to scream encouragement to the flailing forms we could see in the water, but our voices were lost on the wind. When the lightning flashed, we could see men swept along with tree trunks, masses of earth, and heaps of rubbish, their arms reaching toward us, imploring us to help them. There is no more helpless feeling than to stand and watch a fellow creature beg for his life, while you are unable to help.

  "The ropes!" I cried. "The tent ropes." I ran to the tent to unwind a rope but found it lashed to the poles, stiff with moisture, and tied with intricate sailors' knots. In a frenzy I tugged at the fastenings, bruising my hands and tearing the nails.

  Eliza came up to where I was insanely tugging. "Miss Libbie, there's a chance with one
man. He's caught in the branches of a tree, but I see his face and he's alive. There's my clothesline—but I can't do it, I can't. Miss Libbie, where would we get another clothesline?"

  She was so used to protecting our things, so used to frugality, that even in this extreme circumstance she couldn't sacrifice a rope. Without another word I flew to the kitchen for the clothesline.

  We saw a man's face with hue of death—that terrible blue look—and the current battering so badly that he was afraid to leave go of the trees to grasp our rope. We threw it to him over and over again, only to have his benumbed fingers grab at it and then lose hold. I thought he would disappear before us any minute. At long last we made a loop and tried to call to him to put it over his head, and all the while we could hear him bubbling and bellowing and gagging as the water dragged him under, then released him momentarily.

  Eliza, she who was terrified of water, was waist-deep when we finally pulled him ashore—cold and blue, his teeth chattering, his eyes perfectly wild.

  When we had pulled him to shore, I screamed with amazement, "Tom!" There before me was Tom, he who always had laughter in his eyes and mischief in his heart—only now he was more than half-dead, a pitiful and frightening sight.

  He could not answer me but only turned away, retching up river water. We wrapped him in a blanket and put him in my tent. "Coffee, Eliza. Pour hot coffee into him. I'll get whiskey. Can you get the red pepper from your tent?" I was frantic out of my concern for Tom and my sense that Autie could not survive the death of his beloved brother.

  She gave me a strange look but without asking did as I bid. We saved two more men that night, filling them with whiskey, rubbing them with hot pepper, keeping them warm and talking to them all the while, trying to get the scare out of them.

  Still, seven men drowned near our tent that night, and their cries echo yet in my ears. When day broke, we found ourselves on a narrow strip of land, surrounded on all sides by water, cut off from the main body of the camp by a wide and deep river, the water too swift to contemplate crossing it, though some of the cavalry officers thought of plunging their horses in until we begged them not to try. The place looked like a laundry, with blankets, bedding, and clothes strewn everywhere.