“Lieutenant, we’re going to halt the regiment here for a moment while a few of us ride ahead for a little scout. Since you were here before, I’d like you to come along with us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leaving the regiment behind, Marcus rode along with Missouri Joe and the three senior officers until they reached the crest of a small hill, from which they could stare down on the village. All the tepees appeared to be tightly shut against the cold of the winter night. No one was moving anywhere.
“Good,” Pettibone said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “We’ve caught them completely by surprise. Major Conklin, how long will it take you to get your battalion around to the other side?”
“Forty-five minutes,” Conklin replied.
“All right, say fifteen minutes to get back, and forty-five minutes for you to get into position. That means it will still be dark. We’ll have that on our side.”
“Colonel, what about women and children?” Forsyth asked. “By attacking while it is still dark, we’ll be putting them at great risk.” “Yes, I realize that,” Pettibone said. “Unfortunately, we have no choice. Instruct your men to be particularly careful in selecting their targets. I don’t want this to turn into another Sand Creek massacre. There are enough Indian lovers in Washington now. Such a massacre would only serve to unite them.”
“Don’t worry none about that, Colonel,” Missouri Joe said, speaking up for the first time. “Iffen there’s gonna be a massacre, I’m afraid it’s gonna be the Indians doin’ the killin’. They ain’t no women or chillun in that there village.”
Pettibone looked at Marcus with a questioning expression on his face. “Didn’t you say you observed women, children, and old people in the village?”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus answered. He was as surprised by Missouri Joe’s statement as Pettibone was.
“Oh, yeah, they was some of ’em there when we was there,” Missouri Joe said. “But they ain’t none of ’em there now. They done left.” “What makes you say that?”
“Look at that village, Colonel. They ain’t a puff of smoke cornin’ from any of the tepees. And listen, they ain’t a baby cryin’ or a dog barkin’.”
“There are horses in the remuda,” Forsyth pointed out.
“Not near enough horses for a village this size,” Missouri Joe replied. “Just enough to make you think they’s people there.”
“What, exactly, are you getting at, mister?” Pettibone wanted to know.
“I figure when them Indians found the two men me an’ the lieutenant kilt, they must’ve figured we was onto their village. They knowed we’d be a’comin’ back, so they been waitin’, an’ now that we’re here, they laid a trap for us. We’re gonna attack a empty village, then they’re gonna attack us. Now iffen you was to ask me, I think we ought to...” “Yes, well, thank you for your opinion,” Pettibone interrupted. “But your job is only to lead us here. I’ll make the tactical decisions.” Pettibone took out his watch and looked at it. “Gentlemen, it is five of four. Set your watches accordingly. We will have a coordinated attack at exactly five o’clock. Listen for the call, that will be your signal to attack.”
“Yes, sir,” Conklin replied.
One hour later, Marcus was sitting on his horse, looking down at the quiet village below. He had seen nothing stirring down there from the moment they had moved into position.
Cavanaugh looked over at John Culpepper and saw the young lieutenant staring intently at the village below. It was bitterly cold and John’s breath, like the breath of the others, was condensing into clouds of steam as he breathed. Marcus thought this scene would make a perfect picture for one of the dramatic woodcut scenes depicted in Harper’s Weekly.
“Sergeant of the band,” Pettibone called. Those were the first words spoken aloud since the troops had moved into position.
“Yes, sir,” the bandmaster answered.
“It is nearly five o’clock. Prepare to play a march upon my signal.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. He raised his baton and the band members lifted their instruments. When Pettibone brought his arm down, the band began to play and the soldiers of Forsyth’s battalion let out a shout, then surged forward. They were quickly answered by shouts from Conklin’s group on the other side, and the 4th began to close in on the village.
What had sounded like muffled drumbeats before, now sounded like the rolling thunder of timpani as the horses galloped across the wide-open field toward the village.
Conklin’s battalion was much closer to the village, and therefore reached it first. Marcus heard them shooting and, at first, thought they were engaged. Then he realized that the shooting was all one sided and, even before they reached the edge of the village, Marcus saw Conklin’s battalion riding through.
“Colonel Pettibone! The village is empty!” Forsyth shouted, and Pettibone held up his hand, halting the charge.
The men had been in the midst of a cavalry charge, and now they were brought to a rapid halt. They hauled back on the reins, and the horses, who had been committed to a full gallop, had difficulty in stopping. Some of them went on, a few of them even fell to their knees, while many more, confused by the conflicting instructions, turned and galloped off in a different direction.
What had been an organized cavalry attack suddenly turned into a disorganized and unstructured crowd of men and horse flesh. The continuity of command was broken and the greatest strength of a military unit, its order and discipline, was gone. As Marcus watched his own men galloping off in all directions, trying to regain control of their horses, he realized that it would probably take five minutes to reestablish the formation.
But they didn’t have five minutes.
At the moment of the greatest confusion, they suddenly came under an immediate and exceptionally ferocious attack.
Cheyenne sprang up from behind rocks, fallen logs, and snow-covered embankments. There were hundreds of them, surely as many Indians as there were soldiers. And for the moment, at least, the advantage was fully with the Indians. They were fighting the battle exactly as they wanted to fight it. This wasn’t a coordinated engagement with commanders issuing orders and maneuvering troops; this was five hundred individual battles with each participant, Indian and soldier, involved in his own personal fight.
Even though the Indians had no coordination of their efforts beyond the ambush, their positions were such that they were able to deliver a deadly crossfire upon the soldiers.
Marcus’s horse was shot from under him, and he rolled through the snow, then stood up just as an Indian rushed him. The Indian was trying to claim coups with his war club, and Marcus leaned to one side, avoiding the first rush easily. When the Indian lost his footing in the snow and fell, Marcus shot him in the back of the head. The Indian’s brains and blood scattered darkly onto the crest of the snow.
Suddenly a large soldier dismounted right in front of Marcus.
“Would you be takin’ my horse, sir?” the soldier said.
“Sean O’Leary, are you crazy? Get back up on your horse!” Marcus ordered.
“Beggin’ your pardon for disobeyin’, but the men need a leader in the saddle,” O’Leary said. Without waiting for a response, O’Leary physically picked Marcus up and set him on his horse, then slapped the horse’s flanks, sending him forward. When Marcus got control of his horse and looked back toward O’Leary, he saw that the big man had just been hit with an arrow. The Indian who shot the arrow was no more than ten yards away, and as he tried to fit a second arrow into his bow, O’Leary charged him, then picked him up and broke the Indian’s back across his knee like one would break a stick. Then O’Leary was hit with a bullet, and then another, before he fell, facedown, to lie motionless in the snow.
O’Leary wasn’t the only one down. All around him, soldiers were being shot from their horses, then Marcus saw Pettibone’s horse racing by with its saddle empty. Pettibone’s foot was caught in the stirrup and he was being dragged behind the animal, thou
gh he knew nothing about it, because there was a bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead.
“Mr. Cavanaugh! Can you form a perimeter to our south?” Forsyth shouted.
“Yes, sir!” Marcus answered. He had no idea how he was going to do it, but he was grateful that someone had taken command in the field and there were some orders being issued.
Marcus saw John firing, taking carefully aimed shots, and he was gratified to see that despite the terror of the moment his friend was well in control of himself.
“Culpepper, take your platoon and form an anchor at that rock!” he ordered. “I’ll complete the line! Dismount! Every fourth man, hold the horses.”
With the two officers shouting instructions, D Company formed a defensive perimeter to the south. With the perimeter established, Forsyth was able to regain control of the rest of the men, and the soldiers quit fighting their individual battles to fight as an organized army. The advantage passed from the Indians to the soldiers, and the Indians, realizing that, abandoned the field.
“They’re getting away!” Marcus shouted to Forsyth.
“No, they’re not, Marcus. Take your men after them!”
“Yes, sir!” Marcus replied happily. “D Company, get mounted and follow me!”
The horse handlers brought the mounts forward, and D Company leaped into the saddle. They thundered across the field after the Indians, and even though the Indians attempted to scatter in different directions, the pursuit was effective and many of them were killed.
Marcus recognized Two Eagles trying to make it to the edge of a wood line, but Marcus rode him down, knocking the Indian sprawling in the snow. He pulled his pistol and aimed it, knowing he could end it right here. For some reason he held back. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t pull the trigger. He had the idea that perhaps Two Eagles would be more valuable alive than dead.
Two Eagles jumped to his feet, holding his rifle in his hand. The rifle was packed solid with snow.
“Two Eagles. I am Cavanaugh,” Marcus said.
“Cavanaugh!” Two Eagles grunted, and Marcus saw by the expression in Two Eagles’s face that he knew who he was. “You die, Cavanaugh!” Two Eagles shouted.
“Marcus, look out!” John suddenly yelled, and Marcus looked around quickly to see that an Indian he had overlooked was aiming right at him. Marcus jerked back on the reins and his horse reared just as the Indian fired. The Indian’s bullet missed. Marcus heard Two Eagles’s rifle fire, then explode! He realized then that not only snow, but mud must’ve gotten down in the rifle barrel. The explosion tore away half of Two Eagles’s face, killing him instantly.
The Indian who had fired at him and missed fired a second time, and Marcus whirled back toward him, just in time to see him going down with a bullet in his chest. He turned toward John, realizing John must have shot him, then let out a shout of despair.
“John! No!” he shouted.
Lieutenant Culpepper was on his knees, his hand on his stomach, blood spilling through his fingers. He and the Indian had shot each other at the same time.
“John!” Marcus shouted again, dismounting and running quickly to the side of his friend.
“What is it Shakespeare said?” John asked. “We owe God a death?” He tried to laugh, but the laughter turned into a cough. “I’ve always been one to pay my debts,” he said.
John fell forward, lifeless, and Marcus held his head in his lap for a moment, then sadly stood up and looked around. The shooting was over now, and the predawn darkness had rolled away. The darkness had been replaced, however, by an early-morning fog which was growing thicker and which would soon limit visibility even more severely than had the darkness. It lent a ghostly atmosphere to the preceedings, and as Marcus watched, men and horses seemed to appear and disappear before his very eyes, moving as they did through the thickening morning mist.
By midmorning the fog had burned away and the soldiers moved through the abandoned village of Oushata with grim efficiency, burning the tepees and pulling down the lodges. The bodies of the slain soldiers had been collected and wrapped in ponchos, ready for the long trip back to the fort. Colonel Pettibone’s body was among them ... so was Major Conklin, John Culpepper, Sean O’Leary, and Sergeant Flynn. In addition there were forty-six more, making a total of fifty-one officers and soldiers killed. Twenty- four had been wounded.
They had counted 112 Indians. The bodies of the slain Indians still lay in the snow, easily located by the bright red patterns of blood which marked their positions.
On the morning of the next day, carrying their wounded and dead with them on hastily constructed travois, the 4th Cavalry returned to Fort Reynolds. No word had been sent forward of their return, and their arrival wasn’t known until they were sighted by the guards on the wall.
Martha Pettibone, Drusilla Conklin, and Janet Forsyth were gathered in Martha’s parlor. Forsyth asked Marcus if he would accompany him when he took the tragic news to Pettibone and Conklin’s wives.
“It’s certainly not something I want to do,” Marcus said. “Though I imagine it’s something I’ll be doing more than once in my career.”
“Here are the men!” Janet said brightly the moment Marcus and Forsyth stepped into the room.
Marcus looked into Martha Pettibone’s face and saw a little quizzical smile, as if she were asking what was detaining her husband. Then he looked into Drusilla Conklin’s face and saw that there was no questioning look at all. Without being told, she knew the truth.
“My husband is not coming back, is he?” she asked in a quiet, pained voice.
“Oh, Drusilla, you poor thing,” Martha said quickly. “As soon as Andrew gets in I’ll . . .” Suddenly Martha realized, too, and she paused and looked back at Captain Forsyth and Marcus. She gasped and put her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, no,” she said in a voice so small it might have come from a little girl. “Not Andrew, too?”
Neither Marcus nor Captain Forsyth had to answer, for the expression on their faces told all.
“How many?” Drusilla asked. “How many won’t be coming back?”
“Fifty-one,” Forsyth said.
“Who else? Your friend, Marcus? John Culpepper. Is he . . .”
Marcus shook his head sadly. “He was killed.”
“What other husbands?” Drusilla asked. “Martha, we must go to the wives. We must see to them.”
“Captain McPheeters, Lieutenant Varney, Sergeant Flynn,” Forsyth said.
“Martha,” Drusilla said.
Martha, whose face had gone chalk white, looked at Drusilla.
“Martha, we must go see the wives. They will need us.”
“Yes,” Martha said. “Yes, I ... I suppose they will. Yes, that’s what Andrew would want me to do, isn’t it?”
Martha and Drusilla left the commandant’s quarters to call upon the widows of the other husbands who were killed. Marcus watched them, his admiration for Drusilla Conklin knowing no bounds.
“That’s the bravest woman I ever saw,” he said.
“Yes, she is,” Janet agreed. “But then, one might say that she has had a head start on the others. You see, Major Conklin started killing himself a long time ago.”
It was a month later when Marcus went into newly promoted Major Forsyth’s office, to show him the latest issue of Harper’s Weekly. The front cover of the magazine had a thrilling drawing of the battle between the 4th Cavalry and Two Eagles’s Indians. The artist had used his imagination to the fullest, showing flying arrows, smashing war clubs, and slashing sabers. The illustration appeared carefully done—except for the sabers, of course.
“Pettibone’s Last Fight,” the caption read, and Colonel Pettibone was given the center-most position of the picture, using his right hand to drive a saber through an Indian’s heart while, with the pistol in his left, he dispatched another, kicking away yet a third with his boot. All this with arrows already in his body.
“Well, Colonel Pettibone got all the glory he was hungering for,�
�� Marcus said, showing the paper to his commander.
Forsyth picked it up, looked at the picture, then opened it to read the story.
“Read the line where they say his leadership should be compared with the most gallant generals of the war?” Marcus asked.
Forsyth chuckled.
“I think someone should write that newspaper a letter and tell them the truth,” Marcus said, obviously a little bitter about the story.
“And what is the truth, Marcus?” Major Forsyth asked.
“Well, for one thing, this business about his brilliant leadership. If he had listened to Missouri Joe, we wouldn’t have blundered into that ambush in the first place. It was not a brilliantly planned battle, it was a riot. It wasn’t until after Colonel Pettibone was already dead that you managed to rally the troops. And as for bravery, John Culpepper fought and died just as bravely as the colonel. Perhaps even more so.”
“I see,” Forsyth said, nodding gravely and walking toward the dark wooden sideboard.
He retrieved two glasses and a bottle of whiskey and poured two drinks.
“Marcus, as you stay in the Army longer, you’ll learn that while the world may recognize a commander as hero, the true glory in battle belongs to his men. Any commanding officer worth his pay knows that. When you assume a command of your own, you’ll understand how important it is.”
“Thank you, sir . . . for the confidence in my future,” Marcus said proudly.
“Well then, Cavanaugh,” Major Forsyth said, raising his glass, “to future commands. . . .”
“And to duty and honor in the service of our country!”
Glossary
Accoutrements. Soldier’s equipment, other than clothes or weapons.
Ambulance Wagon. A four-wheeled, softly sprung, covered vehicle used to transport the wounded. In peacetime, it could be used as a coach.
Belly Robber. A cook or cook’s helper.
Bob Tail. A soldier who has received a dishonorable discharge, so called because he would cut off the part of the document stating the type of discharge.
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