by Lou Cameron
Caldwell recognized the face of the man who’d led Digger Goldberg’s camel from the river boat the previous afternoon, and decided to throw a test question at him. “Soldier, what’s your seventh general order?”
The man just stood there, mouth open and a look of utter terror in his pale gray eyes.
Caldwell repeated his question and the trooper stammered, “Bitte, mein Herr.”
Corporal Muller cut in with, “Private Dorfler don’t speak English, sir. He’s a greenhorn from the old country.”
Caldwell frowned. “Jesus H. Christ! How many of these men do speak English?”
“All but Dorfler savvy most orders, sir. I got two other German boys, two Micks, and a Polack. Rogers and Streeter are Yanks like me.”
Caldwell nodded, aware how many immigrants were recruited, almost literally, from the eastern docks. Three-fourths of the enlisted men were foreign-born these days. Most of the recruited immigrants were German or Irish. His fellow officers were divided on which breed made the best soldier. The Irish started with the advantage of speaking English. The Germans, on the other hand, were better about obeying such orders as they understood. Leading a man into a possible battle without his knowing a word of English, however, was a little thick.
Caldwell told Muller, “I want this man replaced with a soldier who speaks English. Go tell the sergeant major I said you were to take a man from Corporal Novak’s squad.”
Muller hesitated a moment before he stammered, “Permission to disagree, sir?”
“Go ahead, what is it?”
“Private Dorfler’s a good soldier and a good cameleery sir. I mean, I talk enough Mohawk Valley Dutch to keep him aimed right and … ”
“What if something happened to you, Corporal Muller? I don’t speak a word of German and … ”
“Begging the lieutenant’s pardon, Privates Hess and Von Linden do. If you was to just tell either of them what you wanted old Dorfler to do … ”
Caldwell laughed. “All right, if you want him that bad, it’s your squad, Corporal.”
Muller beamed, and Caldwell heard a pleased murmuring among the men before the corporal remembered himself and snapped, “As you were, damn it!”
The squad fell silent, and Caldwell, pleased himself with the way things were going with his new command, said, “At ease, men. I guess the corporal’s given you most of it, but we’re moving out at sun-up and I figure we’ll be on the trail at least seventy-two hours. We’ve a few minutes of darkness left, so there’ll be no excuse for forgetting gear or wanting a piss call less than an hour on the trail. We’ll reassemble at the corral in fifteen minutes. Any questions?”
A trooper raised his hand and, when Caldwell nodded at him, said, “The sutler says no man is to leave the post without he settles up his tobacco and notions chit, sir.”
Caldwell said, “The sutler’s a civilian with no authority over any man here. He can cut off your credit if your bills at his store get too high. He doesn’t have anything to say about your comings and goings on or off duty.”
There was another pleased murmur, and Caldwell made a mental note to look into the matter if and when he got back. The civilian sutlers who kept shops on military posts under franchise from the War Department were notorious for taking advantage of the underpaid troops. If the one at Havasu was actually giving orders to these immigrant lads, it was time an officer filled him in on a few facts of life.
Another trooper, with an odd accent, asked, “Is true we ride against Apache, Pan Lieutenant?”
Caldwell nodded and said, “A band from south of the border reported in the area. What’s the problem, uh, Csonka?”
The Polish immigrant shot a sideways glance along the line and opined, “Is few men for fight Apache, nie?”
It was a sage assessment, but Caldwell soothed, “We’re only moving out a probing action. We don’t know this band of Diablito’s has jumped the border to fight anybody.”
Csonka asked, “If they don’t look for fight, Pan Lieutenant, why they jumping border in first place?”
“That’s a good question. It’s one of the things we’re riding out to find an answer to.”
“Dlaczego, I mean why … why don’t we take full platoon, Pan Lieutenant?”
Caldwell was about to explain the advantages of traveling light on an intelligence-gathering mission when Corporal Muller cut in with, “We’re movin’ out a squad because the lieutenant says we’re moving out a squad, God damn your eyes! What in thunder do you think you are, Csonka, some kind of officer, for God’s sake?”
Csonka nodded. “Was kapitan of straz one time in old country.” Muller snorted, “Well, you’re a buck-ass private now!” and the Pole fell silent with a muttered “Prawda!”
Caldwell asked, “Any more questions?” and, when there was no reply, told Muller, “Take over, Corporal. I think there’s time for a last smoke before we hit the trail. I’ll be over at the corral if you need me.”
Leaving the men, Caldwell hurried across to the camel corral as the sky grew lighter in the east. After the humiliating two-hour lesson High Jolly had given him the night before, he knew he was going to have to be led like a child again this morning, but at least he’d have a chance to bone up a bit more on the unlikely field equipment Jefferson Davis had stuck them with.
High Jolly was watering a camel at the low trough running along one wall of the adobe corral. Caldwell glanced over the wall and noted the dark forms of kneeling camels lined up neatly at spaced intervals on the hard-packed earth. Matt nodded at the Muslim and asked, “Were they like that all night? I should think they’d go lame hobbled for hours at a time.”
High Jolly murmured something to the camel he held by its nose line and explained, “There is no other way to leave El Jamal for the night, Effendi. Though Allah be more merciful, the thrice unruly beasts run off into the darkness unless one leaves a foreleg doubled and tied under them for discipline.”
He patted the neck of the animal he was watering. “As you see, Effendi, a man can cope with one animal at a time. Twenty-four of them free to move about would tax the lamp of Aladdin.”
“You should have more help. Surely they didn’t plan on one drover tending to this many camels, did they?”
“There were many of us in the beginning, Effendi. My fellow Sons of Islam fared little better than the animals once we had arrived. I, as you see, am on my way to becoming an American. Others were unable to take up new ways, and of course, your people have such strange laws about the love of one man for another.”
“What do you mean, High Jolly? Our Good Book teaches us that we should love our fellow man.”
“Ah, but in moderation, Effendi. I myself have never cared for the flesh of other men, but in my country such matters are neither unheard of nor punished so severely. Back in the east, when we first arrived, some of my countrymen were beaten and threatened most unpleasantly. The officers said that, had they been American soldiers, the punishment would have been twenty years in prison. Truly, this seems a terrible price to pay for a moment of weakness.”
“My God, your friends were caught in the act of sodomy?”
“Only one. The other was taking the part of the man. The officer who made so much trouble about it was as weak as they, for as Allah is my witness, he drank himself into a stupor every night and, it is written, drunkenness is a weakness more shameful than theft.”
“Yeah, well, the rules are different over here. How much water does a camel drink, anyway? That thing’s putting away enough for a full team of mules!”
High Jolly said, “El Jamal needs as much water as any animal of his weight, Effendi. Allah has granted him the ability to store it up before a journey. Near regular supplies of water, he drinks little more than an American gallon each day. But it is written on the cucumber leaf we are going out into the chotts. None of these animals will allow itself to be ridden through the gate until it has put away at least ten gallons or more. I have seen a thirsty Jamal consume thirty gallons at
one time, though, in truth, this is not good for any creature.”
Caldwell leaned his elbows across the adobe wall and, remembering something he’d read someplace, said, “They store the water in that hump up there, right?”
High Jolly suppressed a chuckle. “Forgive me, Effendi, but your people have strange notions about El Jamal. The hump, as you call it, is solid fat. The water is stored partly in one of the extra stomachs Allah granted every beast who chews a cud. Most, in truth, is simply stored in the bloodstream of El Jamal. As he goes, day by day, without a drink, his blood simply thickens. El Jamal can let his flesh dry out more than other animals. He does not sweat, and heat has small effect on him.”
“How long can a camel last without water, High Jolly?”
“Nine days, safely, I have known of some who survived a full two weeks without a bite to eat or drop to drink, but I do not recommend such treatment. El Jamal drops dead at unexpected moments. It is Allah’s gift to a creature often mistreated by ignorant men.”
Caldwell thought a moment and mused, “A horse needs water once a day. A mule can last nearly three. How far apart are the water holes in this area, High Jolly?”
“The truth is written on the wind, Effendi. According to the map in the captain’s office, most wells are found near the jebeli ... I mean, ridges that erupt from the flat desert at intervals of thirty to eighty miles. On the flat chotts between the ridges, there is only water in the rainy season and, though Allah be more merciful, those temporary ponds are poisonous.”
“All right, let’s say drinking water’s fifty miles apart, on an average. Let’s say an Apache pony can cover twenty to thirty miles a day. That means Diablito’s limited in his ability to play Apache hide-and-seek out there. He’s got to make a beeline between water holes and pack at least a day’s supply in his canteens. You’re sure we can keep our mounts going nine days between drinks, High Jolly?”
“Truly, but what of your men, Effendi? A man must have a quart a day in the heat of the desert. Less water will weaken him and, in a just and merciful universe, a bit more would not be too much to ask.”
“All right, how heavy a load can a camel carry in addition to its rider?”
“About a hundred and fifty pounds, Effendi. I am assuming, of course, the rider, his weapons, and so forth weigh no more than two hundred.”
“Hmm, three hundred pounds for nine days, and water weighs eight pounds a gallon ... I think we’ve got those Apache sons of bitches, if Rabbit-Boss can cut their trail!”
The Muslim nodded. “This is the last beast to be watered, Effendi, allow me to hobble it and . ..”
“Why do you want to hobble it?” Caldwell cut in. “We’re moving out in a few minutes.”
High Jolly explained, “It is better that each rider un-hobble his own mount, Effendi. El Jamal remembers small favors.”
The Muslim pulled the camel’s muzzle from the water trough, and as the animal protested with a low burbling moan, Caldwell reached without thinking to pat its head. High Jolly gasped, “Baleuk, Effendi!” and slapped at Caldwell’s wrist with his free hand. Startled, the officer drew back just as the big green teeth of the camel snapped together in the space his friendly hand had been!
Caldwell gasped, “Good God!” and the Muslim said, “I meant you no insult, Effendi, but this one is a biter!”
“You can say that again! What in the hell made it snap at me that way?”
“Ah, that, too, is written on the wind, Effendi. Perhaps, at some time in the past, a man who resembled you mistreated this one. El Jamal remembers small favors, and small insults as well. Fortunately, this one only tries to bite officers. Sometimes they start biting everyone, and in his infinite mercy, Allah made El Jamal with tasty flesh and very fine leather to be tanned from a biter’s hide. Inshallah, there is little else one can do with a rogue, though dishonest men have been known to sell a biter to a fool.”
High Jolly led the grumpy camel back to the others and forced it to kneel, yanking the nose ring and husking, “Kh! Kh! Thrice-accursed offspring of a twelve-thumbed toad!”
Another voice muttered, “Don’t them things smell awful?” and Caldwell saw Greenberg had joined them at the corral. Caldwell asked where Rabbit-Boss was, and Greenberg answered, “Over to the latrine, havin’ hisself a shampoo.”
“Having himself a what?”
“Shampoo. Somethin’ wrong with your ears? Diggers set a heap of medicine in havin’ clean hair. Rabbit-Boss whups up this lather from yucca root and, ever’ chance he gits, washes out his danged old hair like a—”
“I didn’t know Digger Indians were concerned with personal hygiene.”
“Well, mebbe that’s ’cause you ain’t hung around them much. Most Injuns is cleaner than folks give ’em credit fer. I’ll allow they don’t smell too clean, but that’s on account of the fool ways they scrub down their nekked hides. You see, yucca root don’t smell like regular soap, and aside from rabbin’ herbs all over themselves, Injuns like to sorta smoke themselves like hams. Rabbit-Boss says he stands over an herb fixe because it keeps the bugs off en him, but if you ask me, he thinks it’s some dumb sort of perfume. Time an Injun gits through smokin’ his hide in a smudge of juniper, sage, and sech, he winds up smellin’ like a goddamn buffalo robe used once too often fer a smoke signal!”
High Jolly came back, nodded at Greenberg, and said, “Your mount is ready for your baggage, Jebel Achdar.”
Greenberg said, “I ain’t got no baggage. I keep my gun and possibles handy on my ownself, sonny.”
“As you wish, Jebel Achdar.” This time, Greenberg detected the sly look in the young Muslim’s eye and asked, with a frown, “What’s that A-rab thing you keep callin’ me, sonny?”
The drover looked innocent and asked, “Is not your name Greenberg, Yahudi Effendi?”
“Well, what if it is?”
“Corporal Muller tells me this means Green Mountain in the tongue of your forefathers. Jebel Achdar means Green Mountain in the tongue of mine.”
“Is that supposed to be funny, you boy-buggerin’ A-rab son of a bitch?”
“I thought it was amusing. Perhaps, however, it would be best if I called you Greenberg and you stopped calling me sonny. I am not your son, after all, but you are, you must admit, a green mountain.”
The bickering was ended unresolved by the sound of marching feet. Corporal Muller called his eight men to a halt, saluted Caldwell, and snapped, “At your command, sir!”
Despite reading the skimpy camel manual prepared by the War Department from cover to cover the night before, Matt Caldwell had not the slightest notion how one ordered a squad of Camel Dragoons to unhobble and mount their ugly beasts. He returned the corporal’s salute gravely and said, “Have your men in the saddle and ready to go in five minutes, Corporal Muller. I just want a last word with the captain before we move out.”
He turned to High Jolly and added in a desperately casual voice, “Would you bring my mount over to the orderly room, Mr. Jolly?”
Then, before anyone could ask embarrassing questions, Matt turned and walked away. There was nobody in the orderly room at this hour, and the map, if he’d been able to read it in this light, was inaccurate. It was only a ploy to cover the fact that he was in completely over his head, but hopefully, most of the men would think he knew what he was doing.
Behind him, someone snickered, and Muller snapped, “As you were, damn it!”
Except for Private Dorfler, who didn’t know what he was doing there either, none of the men was fooled for a minute, but as one of them observed softly to a companion in the line, “I ’spect he means well and he ain’t so bad for a goddamn officer.”
Dawn found the band of Kaya-Tenay camped for the day in a dry-wash, for Nadene didn’t move their women and children when the sun was shining. The wash was twelve miles west of Fort Havasu, albeit not on the ordnance map in Captain Lodge’s office. The Indians, in turn, were unaware of the camel patrol moving south, between their hiding place and th
e rising sun. After ambushing the Unger party and taking certain precautions to cover their trail, the Nadene had made a night march of nearly thirty miles and were simply resting as they waited for the sun to wend its weary way across the cobalt sky.
Had anyone asked Kaya-Tenay where he was, the husky Nadene would have cheerfully admitted he had no idea. Yet Kaya-Tenay was not lost. Unlike even the most experienced white frontiersman, Kaya-Tenay carried a rough map of the western third of the continent in his bones. He knew, without thinking about it, that most of the mountain ranges and their intervening valleys ran northwest to southeast no matter where one traveled in what the map-makers were one day to call the Basin and Range Province. He knew from experience where chaparral gave way to pinon and juniper on any new but hardly unfamiliar ridge. Kaya-Tenay had no word for geology, but he needed no book to tell him that flint for an arrowhead could be found embedded in a chalk escarpment, and that water hid in the alluvial fans of canyons running down from sandstone hills. The minor details of the vast wastelands he and his people roamed were merely small surprises that added spice to days on the everlasting trail. Kaya-Tenay felt at home anywhere between the Humboldt in Nevada Territory to the winding Rio Yaqui of Sonora. Neither Kaya-Tenay nor any member of his band had ever been this far north before, but it hardly mattered. The lay of the land was the same on both sides of the border for mile after endless mile.
The enemy up here wore different clothes and spoke a different tongue, but the same tricks seemed to work no matter where one traveled, and the White Eyes leading the wagon team had been as unaware as others of the possible dangers hidden in a sunset’s glare. It was said the snow fell lower on the mountains up here in the northern deserts, but the Moon of the Wolf Winds lay far in the future, and he was certain to have another vision by then. There had been no tiswin in the wagon last night, but there would be other wagons and, with tiswin, or the fiery brown tequila of the White Eyes, all things were possible.
