by Len Levinson
“Next” said the blacksmith, thrusting another rivet into the fire.
Stone switched ankles. The blacksmith hammered another white-hot rivet, Stone’s bones were jarred once more. Anger and fear welled up inside him. “You can’t do this to me— goddamn bastards!”
Corporal Warwick slammed Stone’s head with the stock of his rifle; Stone fell comatose to the floor. Corporal Warwick and the blacksmith dragged him back to the anvil, draped his wrists over it.
“Sounds like he’s tellin’ the truth,” the blacksmith said. “That sure ain’t his uniform he’s a-wearin’.”
“We go by the book,” Corporal Warwick said. “Says throw the deserter in the guardhouse and report to the sergeant. Let him worry about it.”
“Poor son of a bitch,” replied the blacksmith, thrusting another rivet into the forge. “Sure hate to be in his shoes in the mornin’ when Buford shows up fer duty. Buford hates deserters more’n anything else in the world.”
Chapter Three
Stone opened his eyes. Pitch-black, painful throb at the back of his head. He moved, felt heaviness at his wrists and ankles, heard shackles and chains. It all came back to him, guardhouse at Fort Hays, charged with desertion.
Tiny splinters of light entered cracks in the shutters. Stone vaguely made out sleeping forms on the floor. Something big and round rested near his right ankle. He touched the iron ball, moved it, estimated its weight at thirty-five pounds.
His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. The slop bucket sat at one end of the room, emanating a horrendous odor entrapped by the closed shutters. The floor was bare ground and dirty straw. An old moth-eaten army blanket lay beside Stone.
Tomorrow morning he’d straighten everything out. America was a nation of law. You needed a warrant to lock up a man. He reclined on the floor, pulling the smelly blanket over him. Lice that lived in the fabric crawled over him; he scratched absentmindedly as he closed his eyes. Exhausted, not fully recovered from pneumonia, he sank into deep slumber.
The guardhouse filled with snores and sighs, men slept all around him. Against the far wall, two heads bobbed up. Weaver and Ritterman, charged with insubordination, fighting, drunk on duty, awaiting transportation to the prison at Fort Leavenworth.
They crept silently across the floor, headed for the newcomer. When they reached him, Weaver whacked him-on the head with a rock. Then they searched his pockets. Ritterman pulled off Stone’s boots, put them on his own feet, good fit. He left his worn boots next to Stone.
Lice sucked Stone’s blood, he was out cold, a red knot growing on his head. He tried to roll over, ball and chain held him back. He coughed, snuggled next to the chain. On the far side of the room, Weaver went to sleep, while Ritterman guarded him. They took turns during the night, together they’d survive.
Stone hacked deep in his throat, iron cuffs cutting into the flesh of his arms and wrists. In the orderly room, Corporal Warwick snoozed on the cot, illuminated by the yellow effulgence of the lamp. The moon shone on the brave little fort in the wilderness, while the sun passed through the underbelly of the earth.
~*~
In the depths of his nightmare, Stone heard the familiar bugle call: reveille. He opened his eyes, saw the shutters of the guardhouse being flung open.
“Everybody up!” roared a deep baritone voice. “Drop yer cocks and grab yer socks!”
Stone was dazed from sleep, scratched his chest, heard his shackles and chains. He had lice many times during the war, knew the old familiar feeling. He reached for his boots, saw the beat-up pair.
The last shutter opened. Four men with balls and chains shuffled about the floor; Stone looked at their boots, spotted the nice comfortable ones he’d bought in Sundust. He raised his eyes, saw square jaw and shock of brown hair. “Give me my boots back,” Stone said, “or I’ll take ’em back.”
Ritterman motioned with his hand. “Come git ’em, you feel like dyin’.”
The door to the guardhouse was thrown open, and in the entrance, backlit from the corridor, stood a solidly built man with a short thick black beard. “Where’s the deserter?”
“You the barracks sergeant?” Stone asked. “Glad to see you, because there’s been a mix-up. I’m a civilian, a deserter took my clothes and robbed me. He left his uniform, you can see it doesn’t fit me.”
Sergeant Buford looked him up and down through little eyes set close together. He had a harelip partially concealed by his beard. “Take ’im to my office,” he said to Private Klappenbach.
Stone was glad he’d finally found somebody reasonable to talk with. He picked up his ball and carried it into the corridor, following Private Klappenbach. They came to the orderly room, Stone moved toward a chair.
“Where you goin’, deserter?” The private lashed out his leg and kicked Stone’s hip. “Stand at attention in front of the sergeant’s desk, you goddamned idiot!”
“I’m a civilian.”
“I’m George Washington. You want a bullet in yer ass?”
Stone lay his ball on the floor, stood at attention beside it. Buford hooked his jaunty forage cap on a peg, sat behind the desk. Private Klappenbach returned to the cell block. Only a few strands of frizzled hair covered Buford’s tanned pate as he bent over the report.
“Mind if I have a seat?” Stone asked.
Sergeant Buford raised his face and looked into his eyes. “Stand where you are, deserter. You’ll get no special coddlin’ here.”
“I told you I’m not a deserter. My clothes were stolen by a deserter.”
Sergeant Buford stared at him for a few moments, then stood and walked around his desk. “All deserters tell the same lies. You don’t fool me one goddamn bit. Enlist, git a free ride West, then head for the gold fields. Think you’re smart, but you ain’t. Yer first mistake was desertin’. Yer second was gittin’ caught. Now you belong to me, and you don’t git no third mistake.”
Stone said, “When this gets straightened out, I’m coming back here. I’ll have a little talk with you that you’ll never forget.”
Buford cocked an eye. “Threatenin’ me?”
“This guardhouse is a disgrace. The Inspector General would like to know about it, I bet.”
“He a friend of yours too, like General Custer? I read Corporal Warwick’s report, you’re goddamned bonkers on top of everything else.”
“You bring General Custer in here, I’ll show you who’s bonkers.”
Sergeant Buford narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like yer tone of voice, you son of a bitch!”
He whacked Stone in the face with his riding crop, opening a three-inch gash. Stone raised his hands to protect himself, but the ball and chain slowed him down. The knotted end of the riding crop nicked Stone’s ear, splitting it open. On the backswing, the riding crop struck just above Stone’s left eye.
“Guard!” shouted Sergeant Buford.
The door opened, Private Klappenbach rushed in, aiming his bayonet at Stone’s belly.
“Deserter just tried to escape,” Sergeant Buford said. “Throw ’im in the hole.”
~*~
In the headquarters orderly room, Sergeant Major Gillespie looked at the morning report from the guardhouse. A deserter had been brought in during the night. Claimed to be a civilian named John Stone.
Sergeant Major Gillespie scratched his head. John Stone. Sounded familiar, couldn’t quite place it. Men came and went, he worried about supplies, ammunition, uniforms, drunkenness on duty, widespread venereal disease, a desertion rate that ran thirty to fifty percent, all companies understrength, injuns massacring women and children, promotion slow, no place to go.
“Ten-hut!”
Sergeant Major Gillespie shot to his feet. The door to the orderly room opened, and General Custer entered, followed by his entourage. Custer pulled off his wide-brimmed black hat and came to a stop before Sergeant Major Gillespie. “Anything for me to sign, Sergeant Major.”
“On yer desk, sir.”
Sergeant Major Gillespie w
as tempted to tell General Custer about the prisoner who claimed to be a friend of his, but feared the general’s volatile moods. Young admiring officers followed the war hero to his office. “At ease!” one of them shouted. Sergeant Major Gillespie returned to his desk, the name John Stone buried deep in the forgotten convolutions of his brain.
~*~
Bleeding from riding crop cuts, John Stone carried his iron ball to the muddy area behind the guardhouse. Horses had been kept here recently, urine and manure potent in the air. They came to a wooden hatch covered with a boulder. Two men lifted the boulder, Corporal Warwick kicked the hatch aside. Hole ten feet deep, six feet wide, with a pot and canteen at the bottom.
“Get in,” the corporal said.
“I’m a civilian,” Stone replied, “and once that’s found out, I’ll get out of here. When I do, I’ll remember you.”
“You just threatened a noncommissioned officer in the United States Army. Throw ’im down, boys.”
The soldiers grabbed Stone’s arms, he struggled to break loose, Corporal Warwick conked him with the butt of his rifle. They dragged him to edge of the hole, kicked him in, his ball and chain dragged him to the bottom. He landed with a crash and didn’t open his eyes for a long time.
~*~
Slipchuck advanced toward Sergeant Major Gillespie’s desk, hat in hand. “My friend John Stone check in yet?”
Sergeant Major Gillespie looked at the broken-down old man standing in front of him. “What was the name?”
“John Stone.”
The name rang a dim bell, but Sergeant Major Gillespie had a hundred louder gongs going constantly in his head, reminding him to do something important, or not to do something critical. “Ain’t you been in here before?”
“Every day.”
Sergeant Major Gillespie wanted to bawl him out for the interruption, but the geezer was a civilian. A soldier could lose everything he’d built for thirty years because of civilians. They paid a few dollars in taxes and thought they owned the army, the White House, and all the ships at sea.
Slipchuck walked out of the orderly room, into the sunshine. He unhitched Buckshot from the rail, climbed into the saddle, rode toward the front gate, worrying about John Stone, who lay sweating in the hole less than two hundred yards away.
General Custer entered his house, took off his buckskin jacket, hung it in the hall closet. His wife, Libbie Custer, descended the stairs, holding her skirt with one hand. “What’s wrong?”
He gazed out the window at the endless prairie. “Damned place is getting me down. Same routine day after day. Wanted more for us than this.”
She came behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist. “We’ll get through somehow, as long as we have each other.”
“Maybe we should get out of the army. Can’t spend the rest of our lives in this hellhole.”
Dogs barked on their front porch, followed by a knock. General Custer and Libby separated. Eliza, their black maid, opened the door. It was Sergeant Major Gillespie standing at attention, hat beneath his arm. “Have to speak to the general,” he said. “Emergency.”
“What is it, Gillespie?” asked Custer.
“Major Scanlon ain’t been seen for five days, sir. Some of the men think he might be dead. Maybe you should look in on him.”
“You look in on him, Sergeant Major Gillespie. I have complete confidence in your judgment in these matters.”
“You’re the onliest man on this post what ranks Major Scanlon. It’s a job for the commanding officer, sir.”
General Custer’s long mustaches twitched as he wondered what to do about his provost marshal. Libbie joined them near the door. “Did I hear the both of you talking about Major Scanlon? Well, he’s on his way across the parade ground right now, and it doesn’t appear as though he’s going to make it.”
General Custer and Sergeant Major Gillespie rushed to the nearest window. An officer staggered toward the guardhouse. His hat was askew on his head, sword too far forward on his belt, shirt mostly untucked. Soldiers clipping grass nearby laughed openly.
Sergeant Major Gillespie said, “There’s also the matter of Lieutenant Classen, requires yer attention, General.”
Custer’s sunburned features shone like bronze in the light from the window. “What matter are you referring to?”
“Whether or not ladies should be present.”
Lieutenant Classen, a West Point graduate only three months ago, had been attacked by injuns while on a patrol. He fled, but his first sergeant assumed command of the men and easily beat the injuns off. Cowardice in the face of the enemy. Tomorrow morning he was scheduled to be drummed out of the Seventh Cavalry. A decision had to be made about whether or not women would be permitted to attend the ceremony.
“I think,” Libbie said, “the general needs more time to think it over.”
Sergeant Major Gillespie replied, “Can’t wait too long. Need to get the orders out.” He threw a smart salute, performed a flawless about-face, marched out of the Custer residence.
The moment the door closed, Libby said, “Poor Lieutenant Classen has been humiliated enough. You needn’t make it worse by letting women see his shame.”
“You don’t want to attend the ceremony, that’s your decision. I won’t tell the women on this post how to lead their lives.”
“You know very well most will go to the ceremony, out of morbid curiosity. Not every man can be brave. It’s not Lieutenant Classen’s fault. He’s such a sensitive boy.”
“He’s a man, not a boy. When I was his age—”
“You were on General McClellan’s staff,” she interrupted, “and you’d already won your first citation for bravery. But everyone can’t be like you. Lieutenant Classen doesn’t belong in the army. It’s enough that he has to be humiliated before the garrison, but not the women too. Something like that could destroy him. If he committed suicide, how would you feel?”
He looked at her in the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. They’d grown up childhood sweethearts in Monroe, Michigan; she the judge’s daughter, he the son of a poor farmer whose copperhead political views were unpopular. She’d been high above him in social rank, yet he’d won her, and now wanted to win her again. He moved toward her, placed his knobby weather-reddened hands on her waist.
“Don’t forget,” she said, “you have to give Sergeant Major Gillespie your decision.”
“Already made,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her ear. “No women at the drumming out.”
“I think my general deserves a reward for his compassion. What do you think he might appreciate?”
With a sweep of his powerful arm, General Custer carried her to the stairs.
~*~
Stone lay semiconscious in the bottom of the hole, flies buzzing around his head, stench and heat unbearable. His throat was the dry bark of a tree, his stomach cramped, body drenched with sweat. Not enough room to lie down and stretch out. Every time I turn around, I get into trouble. The planked trapdoor above him moved. Bright sunlight drove a spike through his brain. He closed his eyes and cringed like a rat exposed to the light of day.
“Time fer dinner,” said a voice above him.
A bucket containing a canteen and bowl of something was lowered to him. Stone fumbled for the canteen, unscrewed the lid unsteadily, drank lukewarm alkaline water. The trapdoor was replaced, dirt and pebbles fell onto John Stone, darkness descended once more. He groped for the bowl of soup, raised it to his nose, smelled like dishwater. He lifted the spoon and tasted some. Probably was dishwater. Starved, he drank it anyway. He could barely breathe, the stench from the slop bucket overpowering, germs of pneumonia coursed through his bloodstream. His eyes rolled into his head and he went slack in the bottom of the hole, breath coming in short gasps.
Private Klappenbach rushed into the guardhouse orderly room. “Think that son of a bitch in the hole is ’bout ready to give up the ghost.”
Sergeant Buford glanced at something behind Pr
ivate Klappenbach. Klappenbach turned and was shocked to see Major Scanlon seated on a chair, uniform rumpled, eyes bloodshot, half closed.
“What’s this about the hole?” he asked in a gravelly voice.
“Deserter,” Sergeant Buford said. “Threatened me and Private Klappenbach.”
“A man dies in that hole, we can all be court-martialed. Get him the hell out of there!”
Sergeant Buford winked. “He kicks the bucket, who’ll know? Fill the hole over his head and dig another one.”
Major Scanlon pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He’d shaved and trimmed his graying mustache that morning, but his hand had slipped, the mustache was lopsided. He appeared ludicrous, the parody of an officer. He teetered from side to side as he declared, “You’ll not kill a prisoner in this guardhouse without full judicial review! Bring that man to me this instant!”
Sergeant Buford drew himself to his full height behind the desk. “Sir, the prisoner tried to kill me. General Custer himself authorized the hole.”
“I said bring that prisoner in here!”
“You’re undercuttin’ the discipline in this here guardhouse, Major Scanlon!”
“You’d better do what I say, Sergeant Buford, or I’ll rip those stripes off your damned sleeve!”
Sergeant Buford gazed at Major Scanlon calmly, wondering if he should shoot him. The major was drunk and erratic, had to be shot before he killed someone by mistake. Sergeant Buford weighed the possibilities. Too many people around. He turned to Klappenbach. “Bring the deserter here.”
Klappenbach left the orderly room, Major Scanlon took an unsteady step toward Sergeant Buford, they were alone. “You’re the scum of the earth, Buford,” Major Scanlon said, lowering his hand to his gun. “I know all about you and the way you treat the prisoners in this guardhouse. You’re sick in your goddamn mind, like a lot of other people on the post I could name. One of these days you’ll go too far, you’ll be the one in the guardhouse, mark my words.”
Sergeant Buford stared him in the eye. “You mark mine. I’m goin’ to kill you. You couldn’t even handle yer own woman. All the officers was a-plunkin’ her, and you didn’t know nawthin’ about it, or didn’t want to know.” Sergeant Buford’s hand hovered above his regulation Colt revolver. “We could hear her callin’ you idiot all the way to the guardhouse. You was old enough to be her daddy. You know what I think you are, Major Scanlon? I think you’re just a dirty old man.”
