Six
Second Lieutenant Boothe tipped back the brim of his hat. The sun, though not yet a deep orange color, was sinking toward the western horizon of the bleak, empty landscape. He looked back at the train of six baggage wagons and the regimental ambulance behind him. There were four troopers on each side of the slow convoy and two more to the rear. Up at the front, where Wildon rode, there was just himself and his second-in-command, Sergeant. James Garrity.
Garrity, a muscular, grizzled man with a short-cropped gray beard, was a veteran sergeant with a quarter of a century in the U.S. Army. He had been three years into his first five-year hitch when the War Between the States broke out. That was in this same cavalry regiment in which he still served. Others who now had assignments in the unit had also been with him. The present commander Colonel Blandenberg had led the third squadron as a senior captain. Major Darnell and Captain Armbrewster were both fresh-faced lieutenants in those days. They would learn some hard lessons in the four years of warfare ahead of them. When Lee surrendered at Appomattox, no peace awaited them or the regiment. Rather than being posted to a cushy garrison or assigned as occupation troops in the South, the unit was sent west to fight the fierce Kiowas and Comanches in Texas.
Only recently, with the shifting of hostilities farther north, had Garrity and the others finally been able to enjoy some quiet boredom in the garrison. Now, with this latest transfer to Arizona where unbridled Apache resisted civilization’s encroachment, it appeared that active fighting was once again to be a part of their lives—and deaths.
“How far do you figure we’ve traveled today, Sergeant?” Wildon asked.
“I’d say about fifteen miles, sir,” Garrity answered.
Wildon raised his eyebrows in surprise. He’d calculated the distance himself using the mathematical skills picked up with his engineering training at West Point. His own estimate was 14.875 miles. “How did you arrive at that answer?”
Garrity shrugged and grinned with quiet humor. “I just feel about fifteen miles tired in these old soljer’s bones, sir.”
“My shavetail bones agree,” Wildon said. He liked having the sergeant by his side. The N.C.O.’s appearance and conduct epitomized everything, Wildon thought a professional soldier should be. “Let’s call a halt and settle in for the night.”
“Yes, sir.” Garrity swung his horse around and signaled the lead wagon. The driver pulled on the reins to lead the others into a tight circle.
After two days of travel with the sergeant, Wildon knew enough to leave the organization of the camp to him. He rode back down the line of wagons until he reached the one he and Hester used as their traveling quarters. The soldier-driver saluted him from the seat. “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, O’Leary,” Wildon said.
Hester, sitting beside the teamster, looked at her husband from the shadow of the sunbonnet she wore. It was part of an outfit that had been a last-minute purchase from the sutler. Her dress was gray calico with long sleeves and a high neck. Although the attire was far from attractive, it was practical and comfortable for the long weeks of travel they faced.
O’Leary stepped down from the wagon, then turned to help Hester to the ground. After a polite tipping of his hat, the soldier set about uncoupling the pair of mules and leading them over to the animal picket line being set up under the supervision of a bad-tempered corporal.
“How did the afternoon go, dear?” Wildon asked, unhooking the tailgate.
“Lovely,” Hester said in a flat voice.
Wildon hopped up into the back of the wagon and lowered two chairs to the ground. “I’ll bet it was dusty at times,” he said cheerfully.
“It was dusty all the time,” Hester said, sitting down.
Their conversation was interrupted by Surgeon Schuyler Dempster walking by. “Good evening, folks,” he said cheerfully. “How was the ride today?”
Hester didn’t bother to answer.
“Oh, well,” Dempster said, sensing her displeasure, “a few more weeks and this will all be over. I shall see you later.” He tipped his hat and walked toward the other side of the wagons.
Wildon reached into the wagon and pulled out their cooking pots. “Well, I’ll have a fire going and we’ll enjoy some nice hot coffee. How does that sound?”
“Wonderful.”
Quartermaster Sergeant Mulvaney appeared at the Boothe wagon. As the commanding officer, Wildon received constant callers. “Good evening, sir. Top o’ the day, Mrs. Boothe.”
“Yes, Sergeant Mulvaney?” Wildon asked.
“Sir, I’m happy to report that there’s no problems with wagons or animals,” Mulvaney said. “I’ve checked the convoy and ever’thing is standing tall.”
“That’s fine,” Wildon said, glad to have some good news. “I presume the problem with the wheel on the water wagon has been taken care of.”
“Indeed it has, sir,” Mulvaney said. “We greased her up and tightened her down. She’ll last to Fort Mojave.”
“Good evening, folks.” Mulvaney’s wife Dixie joined them, carrying a steaming pot.
Hester sighed at this latest interruption, but kept her irritation to herself. “How do you do.”
Dixie was a short, stocky woman with faded red hair and a good-humored face covered with freckles. “I’ve a bit of extra p’tato soup and I thought it might go well here.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Mulvaney!” Wildon exclaimed. He had not been eating well at all. Hester’s attempts at cooking amounted to only boiled salt pork and hardtack soaked in coffee. “It is most appreciated, thank you so much.”
Hester, smiling slightly, continued to sit in the chair.
Dixie, waiting for a few moments, finally spoke to her. “If you had some bowls, I could ladle you out a bit.”
Hester finally took the hint and got up to fetch a couple of bowls stowed in the rear of the wagon. She held them out while Dixie gave them a generous helping of her soup. “There’s a bit o’ peas and carrots in there too.”
“It smells delicious,” Wildon said. “We’ve not been enjoying very fancy cuisine on this trip.”
“Well now,” Dixie said diplomatically. “If you could use some help or would like me to share a recipe, just say the word.”
Mulvaney laughed. “My darling Dixie has cooked under far worse conditions that this. And she knows how to fill a family’s bellies, believe me.”
“Thank you,” Hester said coldly. “I shall keep your kind offer in mind.”
“By your leave, sir,” Mulvaney said, saluting. “I’ll get back to me own wagon for a hot supper.”
“We’ll be seeing you,” Dixie said.
After the Mulvaneys made their exit, Wildon and Hester gave their full attention to the delicious soup. Hester consumed her meal slowly, her eyes gazing out past the wagons to the desolate desert area. “What is it you said they call this place, Wildon?”
“The Llano Estacado,” he answered. “That means the Staked Plain in Spanish. I read up a bit on it. It’s approximately thirty thousand square miles of semi-arid plain. Not much water and a high evaporation rate, so any rainfall doesn’t stick around much.”
“It that why we must carry our water with us?” Hester asked.
“Yes,” Wildon said. “You can find some out here now and then, but I’m afraid it’s not too tasty.”
“I suppose washing is out of the question, isn’t it?” Hester asked.
“I’m afraid so, darling. But bear up,” he said. “It’s only a temporary thing.”
“God in heaven, Wildon!” she exclaimed. “This dreary trip is going to take three or four weeks.” The journey had been an emotional slap in the face to the young woman. Not only could she not wash, but tending to nature’s call was done in the open. Then women went to the left of the train and the men to the right. Hester found squatting down and relieving herself behind the dubious privacy afforded by withered desert plants an embarrassment. The other women, all enlisted men’s wives, chatted gaily among the
mselves during these times. Hester withdrew from them as much as possible. She found their company disagreeable under any circumstances, but particularly trying in the present lack of decorum.
Wildon stopped eating. “I’m terribly sorry, darling. I truly am.”
Hester took another bite of her soup. “I do not know why you have chosen this awful life. Haven’t you considered the choices available to us back in New York? If you don’t care for your own family’s business, perhaps you would accept a position in mine. Father could find you any number of interesting and well-paying positions.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a soldier,” Wildon said almost defensively.
“Then why not be one back in the East?” Hester asked. “Your own uncle could see that you would be stationed at some nice fort in New England.”
~ “Darling, I chose the cavalry as my branch because I knew the chances for active service in the Indian wars were the greatest,” Wildon said. “I thought it rather nice if I could become a general someday. I could never attain high rank going through useless parades at some fancy-pants post. That is why I want active campaigning.”
Hester set her bowl on the ground. “I guess I’m not very hungry this evening.”
He finished his soup. “I must find Sergeant Garrity and inspect the guard. I’ll be back in a half-hour or so.”
“Take your time.”
Wildon stood up and started to say something. Changing his mind, he walked across the inner area of the circled wagons to the soldiers’ area. His mind felt crushed by the realization of the inevitable clash building up in his marriage.
The regiment’s physical transfer to Fort Mojave, Arizona Territory, had been a carefully planned military operation. Colonel Blandenberg sat down with his squadron commanders, adjutant, quartermaster, and staff noncommissioned officers to put everything down on paper. The actual route to follow across New Mexico was minutely traced on maps with special consideration being given to the wagons and the families of the men.
An advance party, made up of unmarried officers and soldiers, would go ahead in order to arrive at the new post and begin the preliminary preparations for the arrival of the main body. The bulk of the regiment would follow them in twenty-four hours. A third element, one day behind them, would be a wagon train made up of nonessential baggage supervised and cared for by the quartermaster sergeant. This group would also make a last-minute inspection of Fort MacNeil to make sure it had been properly cleared and that no U.S. property had been inadvertently left behind.
Since no hostile Indians were in the area, only a small escort of troops would be required. This insignificant duty was assigned to the most junior officer—Second Lieutenant Wildon Boothe—to command. Sergeant Garrity was assigned to help him with the ten men in the detachment. Quartermaster Sergeant Mulvaney would be in charge of the teamsters. Colonel Blandenberg also was considerate enough to allow not only Lieutenant Boothe’s wife to accompany him, but also three other women married to soldiers in the group.
The final addition to the little wagon train was Surgeon Schuyler Dempster and his hospital orderly. They and their baggage would travel in the ambulance.
Since no potable water would be available in rivers and creeks, a water wagon was made available in each of the three groups. Government rations, consisting of salt pork and hardtack, would also be the bare minimum. If any of the married couples were willing to carry their own food, they were free to eat as they pleased, keeping in mind that firewood would be scarce.
It was under these conditions that Wildon and Hester took up temporary residence in the back of a government-issue wagon. All their furniture, bedding, clothing, and other belongings were piled in. Wildon spent the day leading the little baggage train across the expanse of the Llano Estacado while his wife sat on the hard, bouncing seat of the wagon beside an army teamster.
She could have borne up under the strain if they had been headed for a nice post. But putting up with the present physical hardship to go to a worse place made the very idea of the journey an abomination.
The clear persistent notes of Reveille sounded over the camp. Wildon, responding with the same instinctive fervor he had done at West Point, sat straight up before he was fully awake. In doing so, he dragged the covers off Hester. She moaned loudly and woke up as the cold air swept over her.
“Wildon!” she hissed angrily, grabbing the blankets.
“We have to get up, dear,” Wildon said. He crawled over to where his uniform was piled and quickly dressed in the dark. “I must see that the men are ready to move out as soon as possible.”
“Can’t that Sergeant Garrity take care of that?”
“He will, dear,” Wildon explained. “But I must be there to take his report.”
Hester, silently damning the United States Cavalry to an eternity in hell, struggled into the awful dress that circumstances now forced her to wear. She’d just slipped into her shoes when the driver could be heard outside the wagon bringing up the mule team.
“Mrs. Boothe!” The shrill voice of Dixie Mulvaney sounded over the tailgate. “Mrs. Boothe!”
Hester gritted her teeth. “Yes?”
The woman’s face, lit by a nearby flickering campfire, appeared at the rear of the vehicle. “Good morning, Mrs. Boothe. I brung you and the lieutenant some hot coffee.”
“Thank you,” Hester said. She could smell the brew, and it was a welcome aroma in spite of her dislike for Dixie. Bent double, she walked toward the rear of the wagon. It was jostled by the soldier hitching up the mules to it and she stumbled.
Dixie laughed. “Now ain’t this a hell of a life?”
“Yes, Mrs. Mulvaney,” Hester said grimly as she slipped down to the ground. “This is, indeed, a hell of a life.” She took the tin cup and treated herself to a sip. “Thank you very much.”
“Sure now and you’re welcome,” Dixie said. “It’s hard to get up now and then, ain’t it?”
“It is difficult any time,” Hester said.
“I’d be happy to wake you a bit early,” Dixie offered. “That way you could have some coffee ready for the lieutenant before he went to his duties.” Hester didn’t like that idea one bit. “No, thank you.”
“It’s no trouble a’tall,” Dixie assured her. “After twenty years as an army wife, I sleep with one eye open anyway.”
“I intend to sleep with both my eyes firmly shut,” Hester said angrily. “And as far as Wildon having a hot cup of coffee in the morning. I couldn’t care less.”
Dixie smiled. The sergeant’s wife was not a stupid woman. She had sensed Hester’s dislike for her, but put it down to being new, confused, and unhappy. “It’s terrible difficult the first few years, my dear, but—”
“I’ll not be here twenty years, Mrs. Mulvaney,” Hester interrupted. She greedily drank down the coffee and handed the cup back. “Will you excuse me, please?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Hester walked away from the camp and out into the desert. After going fifty yards she found a knee-high scrub. Looking around, she pulled down her drawers and lifted her skirt. Squatting there, she relieved herself, thinking of the fine water closet back at her home on Lake Champlain’s shore.
“God!” she thought. “If Penelope and Fionna could only see me now!”
After finishing, she straightened her clothes and walked back. The team was hitched up and the driver waiting. Her face crimsoned with the thought he knew what she’d been doing. But the soldier seemed unaffected. “Good morning, Mrs. Boothe. Are you ready to hop up on the seat?”
“Yes. Thank you,” Hester said. She allowed the man to help her up onto the high seat.
Wildon rode up, reining in beside her. “I just got a cup of coffee from Mrs. Mulvaney. She says she’d visited you already.”
“Yes,” Hester said.
“Nice lady,” Wildon said. “It’s time to move out. I shall see you later, dear.”
Surgeon Dempster appeared on his way to his own vehicle. “A g
ood morning to you, Mrs. Boothe. It appears you’re all set for another day of travel, hey?” He walked on by without waiting for a reply.
It was just as well. Hester didn’t feel like talking. She braced herself for another jolting, miserable day on the wagon seat.
Seven
The afternoon seemed an endless, hot ordeal. The men slumped in their saddles while the teamsters let the natural movement of the plodding mules pull the wagons with a minimum of physical or vocal guidance.
Even Wildon, usually enthusiastic and energetic about any aspect of military life, dozed from time to time. He fought the sleepiness in various ways. Wishing there was enough water so he could enjoy the luxury of splashing some onto his face, he stood in the stirrups, dismounted for walks beside his mount, and even slapped himself once or twice. But he still occasionally dozed off.
Each time he snapped back awake, he would look sheepishly over at Sergeant Garrity. The N.C.O. was always wide awake and unaffected by the lethargy that blanketed the baggage train.
Finally, in spite of all his efforts, the young second lieutenant sank into a deep sleep, instinctively maintaining his seat on the horse’s back. The plop-plop sound of the hooves on the hard sand seemed almost hypnotic. He dreamed a bit about himself and Hester back in New York. Like all mental images conjured up in slumber, this one was disjointed and unreal. People he knew at Fort MacNeil were there at Lake Champlain. But suddenly there was a disturbance in his napping. The clopping of the horse was now interspersed by loud popping sounds that quickly grew in intensity.
“Flankers in!” Sergeant Garrity bellowed. “Circle the wagons! Move, goddamn you, move!”
Wildon’s eyes popped open. He looked around and saw riders making a wide circuit around the wagon train as the mule-drawn vehicles slowly turned into a defensive formation. Then it dawned on him that the horsemen were shooting at them. “Indians?”
“No, sir,” Garrity answered. “Border raiders.” Another look by Wildon confirmed that he and his group were indeed under fire. Although the shooting was inaccurate because of the range and the fact the assault was being conducted on horseback, the situation was still dangerous. The officer studied the unexpected adversaries. They seemed a diverse group. Some were dressed as Mexicans with wide sombreros. Others had the appearance of being American cowboys. A good number wore combinations of not only those two modes of dress but affected certain articles of Indian costumes too.
The Long-Knives 5 Page 5
