by John Jakes
46
THE STUNTED CORN RUSTLED from the passing of the horsemen. The corn was worthless for cover. The tallest stalks reached only haunch-high on Charles’s roan. He had suggested that they dismount to advance, thus taking advantage of what little protection the field did afford. Bent had vetoed that.
“Need I remind you that the new cavalry is supposed to fight from horseback, Lieutenant?”
Charles didn’t think consistency was worth the risk of casualties, but he kept his mouth shut. He reckoned it to be four or a little after. The moon had set. Directly above, the stars were visible, but around the horizon they were hidden by a haze. It lent an eerie quality to the cornfield and to the line of men riding through it at a walk.
The mounted men formed a big, slow-moving half-circle, each rider separated from the next by an interval of about four feet. Bent held the center, with his orderly bugler directly behind him. Charles was about halfway down the line on the right flank. O’Dell rode at the same position on the left.
Because they were walking their horses, each man was able to carry a revolver in one hand, a carbine or musketoon in the other. Only Bent varied the pattern. He held his Allen and Wheelock six-shot in his right hand, his saber in his left. The sword felt awkward there, but at least he was correctly equipped.
Bent had sipped only a little water during the long ride around the Comanche flank. Even so, his bladder was painfully full. No doubt that was fear working on him. Fear of the hostiles. Fear of death. Fear that he’d again tarnish his record by bad judgment. He was sure that every other member of the detachment wanted him to fail, and that Main wanted it most of all.
Slowly, so as not to attract attention, Bent looked to the right. He located his second lieutenant in the misty half-light. An owl hooted. Bent gripped his revolver tightly and prayed that at the right moment his bullet would find its target.
Charles squinted. How far to the log farmhouse? About a quarter of a mile or a little more. No lights showed, but Lantzman and his family were surely on guard in the darkness.
Would they start firing indiscriminately the moment they saw horsemen in the corn? Bent ought to be alert to that possibility and order a bugle call to signal the presence of soldiers. Did he have enough sense?
The feeling of dread continued to plague Charles. He shoved his Colt into the saddle holster and, with his carbine resting in the angle of his left elbow, reached up with his right hand to try to squash a mosquito. He slapped his ear twice. Each time the whining faded, only to resume. With a curse he again drew his revolver.
A horse whickered on the far side of the farmhouse. The roofline blotted the dim campfire on the slope on the other side of the creek. Not a sound came from the Comanche camp. If they meant to launch a dawn attack, they had not yet begun to prepare.
Suddenly a black scarecrow figure rose in the corn ten yards out from the house. Charles had a blurred impression of long hair and a long-barreled weapon flung up to firing position. One of the troopers shouted a warning. The Indian’s musket squirted fire and roared.
Between Charles and the center, a trooper pitched from his saddle. Other Comanche sentinels, five or six of them, popped up suddenly and began firing. Charles braced his carbine against his hip and pulled the trigger. The angle was wrong, the shot too high. He scabbarded the carbine and laid his Colt across his left elbow, steadying the roan with his knees.
He aimed for the nearest Comanche as horses shied and yelling broke out along the line. He squeezed off his shot. The Comanche sank from sight.
Inside the farmhouse a man was bellowing an alarm. There were other outcries across the creek. Then more musket fire. A shot from a loophole in the house felled a soldier. Why in the name of God didn’t the captain sound a call before Lantzman’s family killed them all?
Bent was trying. For the third time he cried, “Orderly bugler—sound trot march!”
The orderly swayed in the saddle as if he had imbibed too heavily. Furious, Bent sheathed his sword, switched gun hands, and brought his prancing roan under control. He reached out to seize the bugler’s hickory shirt. His hand closed on sticky cloth.
Without thinking, he pushed the enlisted man, who fell off the far side of his horse with his head tilting back. In the faint light, Bent saw that a musket ball had pierced the bugler’s right eye.
Two or three Indians remained between the soldiers and the farmhouse. Bent heard balls whizzing and hissing to the right and left as he leaped to the ground. Confused and frightened, all he could think of was the necessity for a bugle call.
“Close up. Close up and advance!”
Whose voice was that? he wondered as he stumbled to the body of his orderly and seized the bugle. Main, that’s who it was. Afterward they’d say he was the one who showed initiative. Damn him. Damn him.
The bloody bugle in hand, he regained his saddle and saw Charles speeding by from right to left. Bent flung the bugle away, snatched his revolver from the holster, and quickly surveyed his surroundings.
No one was close; no one was watching. The line was falling apart, each trooper firing, defending himself as best he could. Bent aimed the revolver at Charles’s retreating back. Pressed his lips together. Slowly exerted pressure on the trigger—
An Indian ball nicked his roan on the left flank. The horse bellowed and bucked. Bent’s revolver boomed, barely heard in the gunfire. Charles rode on, untouched.
Infuriated, Bent was ready to try another shot, caution abandoned now. A thrashing in the corn caught his attention. He whipped his head around. Not eight feet away there was a horseman.
“O’Dell! I didn’t see you—” Terrified, Bent felt his bladder let go.
“What in hell are you doing, sir? Why did you shoot at one of your own men?”
The quiet accusation had an unexpected effect. It restored Bent’s calm, made him realize the extent of the danger into which his hate had pushed him. No words could save him at this point. He answered O’Dell by raising the Allen and Wheelock to firing position.
O’Dell’s mouth opened, but he had no time to cry out. Bent’s shot destroyed most of O’Dell’s face and flung him sideways. His left boot tore free of the stirrup, but not his right. The roan cantered away with O’Dell hanging head down. His skull was quickly beaten to pieces by the hard ground.
Fighting panic, Bent looked around hurriedly. No one had seen the shooting. It was still too dark, with powder smoke and mist further hampering visibility. Bent holstered his gun and again drew his saber. With the blade at tierce point, he screamed the order for his men to advance at a trot.
Charles had already taken care of issuing that order. Three troopers closed on the last Indian sentinel and dropped him with well-placed shots. One man sabered the Comanche’s throat for good measure.
Charles rode to within twenty feet of the farmhouse, risking himself so that the Lantzmans would be sure to hear his shout:
“This is the Second Cavalry. Hold your fire.”
Silence settled. Smoke drifted away in the mist. Bent trotted forward. “Dismount. Dismount!”
Gradually the troopers obeyed. Panting, Bent dropped to the ground in the midst of milling horses. He hoped the dark would help hide his damp trousers.
“Good work, men. We carried the day.”
“We lost three men,” Charles said, still in the saddle. Bent wished he could raise the revolver and blow Charles’s head off. But reckless action had nearly undone him once; it must not happen again.
“No, wait,” Charles exclaimed. “Where’s O’Dell?”
He called the officer’s name twice, loudly. Then Bent spoke. “No use, Lieutenant. One of the savages got him. I saw him fall. His horse dragged him off.”
Bent’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. If anyone was to challenge his lie, it would happen now—now—
“God,” Charles said softly, climbing down. No one else uttered a word.
Bent exhaled. He was safe. He squared his shoulders. “I regret the loss as muc
h as you, but we must consolidate our gains and plan our next move. We’ll want pickets along this side of the house, Lieutenant. Take care of it while I see to those inside.”
He pivoted, one hand resting on his saber hilt. He felt exactly like a conquering general as he strode toward the log house, calling, “Lantzman?”
Charles detailed four troopers to bring in the dead; it hadn’t occurred to Bent, apparently.
He watched one member of the detail spread tarpaulins close to the farmhouse wall. Dawn light filled the eastern sky now. The mist was dissipating. Inside, Bent could be heard making pronouncements to people who spoke much more softly than the captain; Charles detected at least one feminine voice. Bent’s tone of authority angered him. The man might do passably well as a staff officer, but as a line commander he was an incompetent. He had botched the advance to the farm. In anticipation of sentinels, they should have approached in double file, to present a narrower target. Or, better still, on foot, as Charles had suggested.
The captain’s refusal had cost them four dead. A fifth trooper was out of action with a ball in his foot. Add to that the two men dispatched to Camp Cooper, and their effective strength was reduced to seventeen. Against thirty or more Comanches still left.
Two of the detail appeared, dragging something in an indigo saddle blanket. “We found everyone but Lieutenant O’Dell, sir. There’s no sign of him.”
Charles nodded in an absent way. He looked to the hills beyond the pitiful fields. The man who had befriended him was lost out there with no one to mourn him. Charles’s eyes filled with tears. Then shock settled in. His legs shook. He had to lean against the log wall to keep from falling. The men in the detail looked elsewhere until the worst of it passed.
Suddenly, there was an outburst of yelling from the creek side of the house. Charles hurried to the corner and peered around. Over in the Comanche camp, the braves were milling their horses, brandishing lances, whooping. Most of them were young men, their glossy hair parted in the center and braided in long queues. Some had accentuated the part by streaking it with white or yellow clay. Faces were painted red, with white or yellow eyelids. One warrior had drawn huge black fangs all around his mouth.
A wagon creaked down the hillside toward the noisy Indians. The sight of it hit Charles like a hammer. It was the provision wagon that had been following the soldiers, but now it was being driven by three braves. The left side of the wagon’s canvas top was splotched by a huge bloodstain.
Troopers crowded up behind Charles, whispering and pointing at the wagon. “The red fuckers,” one man growled. “What d’you suppose they did with our boys?”
Charles said, “I’d rather not know.”
He headed for the back door of the farmhouse. The death of Lafayette O’Dell placed an unwanted responsibility on him. To make matters worse, the captain refused to admit that he was in over his head. If any of Bent’s ideas were questioned, he would surely fly into a rage. Charles would just have to accept that fact—that added problem—and deal with it as best he could.
Thank God no decisions were required immediately. All they had to do was dig in and await the reinforcements.
The last hour had changed Charles’s ideas about the nature of war. War was not a gay martial parade on the Plain with the ranks perfectly aligned, every bit of brass polished, and the flags flying while the drums beat cadence. War was disorder, dirt, death. It was nerve-shredding fright.
His legs still felt shaky as he entered the farmhouse. The interior consisted of a long, flat-roofed room with alcoves for sleeping, plus another housing an iron stove. The place reeked of powder smoke and something far worse. He saw flies walking on two bodies covered to the neck by blankets. One, an older, gray-haired man, he presumed to be Lantzman. The other was the farmer’s oldest son, Karl, the one whose leg injury had prevented the family from fleeing. He presumed both men had died outside.
Four members of the family remained. Mrs. Lantzman was a worn little woman with moles on her chin. Two blond sons in their late teens moved slowly, like sleepwalkers. Their eyes were glassy. The fourth survivor, a girl, seemed less affected by the siege, perhaps because she was younger.
She was about twelve, Charles guessed. Her sweet face reflected her youth, but she had already developed a woman’s figure. As Charles stood silently, he saw Bent’s eyes shift and linger on the full bosom within the tight, stained bodice of the girl’s kersey dress.
The girl was unaware of the attention. She was busy pulling round shot from a leather pouch hung from her shoulder. Her long gun leaned against her other hip. An Augustin musket, Charles noticed; Austrian jaeger battalions carried them, and the quartermaster of the Army, Joe Johnston, imported a good many.
Close to tears, Mrs. Lantzman said, “How can we stay here, Captain? We have no more food. My husband died trying to reach the creek to bring back water.”
“We have rations to share. Water, too.” Bent sounded smooth and confident. “I’ll have my men dig in around the house”—Charles had crossed the room and now put his eye to a loophole on the creek side. His right hand clenched—“while we await the reinforcements. With no bad weather to hamper them, they should arrive before the end of the day.”
Without turning, Charles said, “I think not, Captain.”
“What’s that?”
“You’d better see this. A half-dozen braves just rode in. Look at the ones with lances.”
Bent waddled to the loophole and squinted. His face drained of color. Four of the new arrivals held their lances high and shook them. On the points of two, trophies were impaled.
The heads of the two soldiers sent to Camp Cooper.
Charles thought the captain would go to pieces. Bent paced, muttered to himself, several times turned to blurt some thought but never did. There was a wild, vacant glint in his eye. The dazed Lantzman boys knew something was amiss. Even the girl stared at the captain fearfully.
Every second was precious now. Charles cleared his throat. “Sir—”
Bent whirled, shouting, “What is it?”
“I’d like permission to send scouts back through the cornfield. That’s our only avenue of retreat.”
The captain gave a limp wave and sank onto a stool. “Go ahead.” He stared into space as Charles hurried out.
Charles was back in twenty minutes, looking grim. “They’ve already moved men into the gullies behind the field. At least fifteen, Corporal Ostrander said. We’re cut off. Surrounded.”
Why hadn’t they left before this? Charles asked himself in a silent burst of fury. But of course he couldn’t hold Bent responsible for their failure to do so; they had all anticipated the eventual arrival of a relief column. Evidently the two dead troopers had run into one of those small bands whose signs Doss had discovered. Charles had a feeling the entire expedition was cursed.
Bent swiped a hand across his perspiring face. “Surrounded? Then we must dig in and wait for help.”
“From where?” Charles exclaimed.
“I don’t know! Someone will come—” The sentence trailed off.
“But Captain,” the girl said, “is there enough food?”
Mrs. Lantzman shook her head. “Hush, Martha. Don’t question the soldiers. They know best.”
“Yes. Exactly right,” Bent said with another of those vague looks.
He was foundering again. Charles couldn’t permit it to continue. “Just a minute,” he said.
Bent’s head jerked around, his moist eyes brimming with resentment. Charles spoke to the others rather than to his superior: “We have to recognize that we’re in a bad situation. We’re outnumbered, and no one from Camp Cooper will be coming to relieve us. The Comanches can build up their forces and attack at their pleasure. I don’t believe any of us wants to sit here and wait to be killed. Or taken prisoner,” he added with a glance at Martha. Mrs. Lantzman understood his meaning.
“What do you propose we do?” Bent snarled.
“Hold on till dark, then attempt
to break out. I’ve thought of a way to distract—”
Bent jumped up, overturning the stool and screaming his answer.
“No.”
As the cry died away, a strange feeling swept over Charles. He felt as though he had just decided to leap into a chasm—which, in a way, he had. But what other choice did he have? Bent was out of control, incapable of dealing with the situation.
“I’m sorry, sir, but escape is the only way.”
The captain’s face reddened again. He grabbed a small puncheon table, hurled it aside, and stormed toward Charles. “Are you disputing me? Questioning my authority?”
“If you mean to stay here, Captain, I guess I am.”
“Lieutenant”—Bent took a deep breath in an effort to control himself, but his voice still shook—“you will say nothing more. That is a direct order. Go outside until I send for you.”
Charles hated matters to come to this—a test of authority, of wills. The two of them should be pulling together to save the others. But how did you convince a lunatic of that? he asked himself wearily.
“I’ll go, sir,” he said, “but I can’t obey the rest of the order. If we stay here, we’re finished.”
Bent looked at him a moment, then said quietly, “Lieutenant Main, you will obey my order or face court-martial.”
“Captain, we’re leaving.”
Bent grabbed Charles’s collar and twisted. “Goddamn it, I’ll see that you’re cashiered!”
Charles deliberately removed Bent’s hand. He wanted to hit the fat officer; only with great effort did he restrain himself. His voice dropped low. “If we get back alive, you’re welcome to try.”
He glanced at Mrs. Lantzman, her two sons, and finally at the girl, who stood holding her Austrian musket in both hands. “We’ll leave as soon as it’s dark. I’ll take anyone who wants to go. If you do, you’d better bury those bodies. We can’t take them.”
Mrs. Lantzman knelt beside her husband’s corpse, shooed the flies off, and began to straighten the blanket. Suddenly she burst into tears. Charles looked away.
The resolute expression on Martha’s face showed she had already made up her mind. Charles turned to the captain and said, “I’ll make the same offer to the men. No one will be forced to go.”
