Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

  “I shot the alligator to save any member of our party who might fall into the water. I shot the Comanche to prevent them from ambushing us.” He looked toward the west for a moment before turning back to her. “I’ve told you before that if you disagree with me you must do so only in private.”

  “I heard you before and I hear you now.”

  “That isn’t the answer I wanted. Can I count on your cooperation in the future?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m not a slave any more. Do to me what you may.”

  October 14, 1804

  The Red River, Louisiana Purchase

  “Mounted Comanche,” McGregor said.

  “Yes. About twenty, I’d say.” Yank was watching the band of Indians on horseback through his telescope. “They must be friends of the one I shot.”

  “Quite likely,” Marina grumbled. “Friends, brothers, a father perhaps. Maybe a son or two. All with a blood grudge.”

  “Do you know the range of our Kentucky rifles, Mr. McGregor?” Yank asked.

  “I canno’ say for certain but I been told by some people that three hundred yards in the hands of a good rifleman is reasonable,” McGregor answered.

  “Those Comanches must have been talking to the same people,” Yank chuckled. “I make them to be about four hundred yards away.”

  “This is no laughing matter,” Marina complained. “We see twenty braves because they want us to see twenty braves. There could be a hundred over the hill.”

  “Stuff and feathers,” Yank replied. “There are no bands of Indians that large in this entire area.”

  “There’s a passel of Comanches in Texas,” McGregor argued. “And we’re sure as blazes in Texas, even if the Spaniards call it New Mexico.”

  “In hunter-gatherer tribes, bands are naturally limited in size by available food,” Yank pronounced. “As you have already noted, Mr. McGregor, this area has little game and few edible plants. I should think it could support a village of no more than one hundred. That includes men, women and children. Those twenty that we see are likely to be all the able-bodied men of a nearby village.”

  “What’s true back east ain’t always true here in the west,” McGregor grumbled.

  “Well,” Yank signaled the column forward and began walking his horse toward the Indians, “we shall soon see if that is true or false.”

  “What are we going to do?” Marina asked nervously.

  Yank pointed forward. “We are going to keep going.”

  “What about them?” She waved her hand toward the Indians.

  “They’re in our way so they must move or fight.”

  “They got their faces painted black,” McGregor observed.

  “War paint,” Marina said.

  “Really?” Yank chuckled. “The Indians of the Northwest paint their faces black in anticipation of death.”

  “The only death those Comanches are anticipating is ours,” Marina replied.

  “How is it that you know that?” Yank asked.

  She gave him a strange look. “Know what?”

  “About their war paint.”

  She shrugged. “They are an offshoot of the Shoshone and the Shoshone paint their faces black before going to war. We encountered some at the Yellow Stone.”

  “Is that how you know their language?” Yank asked.

  “I don’t know their language. Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean by ‘not exactly’?”

  “Many of the dialects are born from an Aztec root language.” She was watching the war party which had not moved. “They intend to fight.”

  “That’s a coincidence; so do I,” Yank said.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Colonel,” McGregor said, lowering his voice. “But you don’t know nothin’ about Indian fightin’. These ain’t no Englishmen who is gonna line up and give us good, stationary targets.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. McGregor. I’ve never in my life fought an English army. But I have, in fact, faced many Indians.”

  “Tame Indians,” McGregor scoffed.

  “Indians with all the skills of these but additionally trained by the French or English and armed with modern weapons.” Yank gestured toward the band at their front. “Those warriors are carrying bows and lances. Before they can do us any harm, we can kill them all, if we so choose.”

  “We ain’t the first whites that they’ve fought,” McGregor argued.

  “But we are the first trained military force with rifles,” Yank replied. “If you wish to withdraw until this issue is resolved you have my permission.”

  McGregor looked like he had been slapped. “There ain’t no need for insults, Colonel. I was just givin’ you my opinion.”

  “Your opinion is always welcome, Mr. McGregor, so long as you continue to follow my orders.” He looked at Marina. “I cannot protect this expedition while debating every decision.”

  The expression on McGregor’s face was not happy, but he offered no reply.

  Yank looked away from Marina and back at McGregor. “There are times when I do not have the luxury of being polite, Mr. McGregor, and this is one of those times.” Yank turned in his saddle. “First rifles. Form a line in front. When those Indians are in range we’ll take them down.”

  Eight men with rifles rode ahead and formed a single line, walking their horses abreast like dragoons, but not quite shoulder to shoulder.

  “Do you agree with the deployment, Mr. McGregor?” Yank asked.

  “Not entirely, sir.”

  “What would you have different?”

  “Both rifle squads, sir. We could kill twice as many.”

  “Very well said,” Yank agreed. “Please deploy the second squad.”

  “You are a devilishly tricky and deceitful man,” Marina whispered when McGregor had ridden back toward the main body.

  “Training soldiers is a tricky business,” He replied. “Especially when they don’t consider themselves to be soldiers.

  The Indians, as they observed the riflemen’s move to the front, began to drift to the right until they were abreast of the column, and still out of range.

  “I don’t like this,” McGregor complained.

  “Nor do I,” Yank agreed. “Ask someone to load two rifles for me.”

  “What are you planning to do?” Marina asked.

  “I’m going to ride out there to musket range, shoot one of those Indians and ride back,” he said. “If they follow me, we will destroy them. If they don’t I’ll repeat it again and again until they’re all dead.”

  “Why not let some other body ride out there in your stead, sir?” McGregor asked before Marina could argue. “Somebody that ain’t so valuable to us all.”

  “There’s no risk,” Yank insisted.

  “Unless yer horse steps in one o’ them prairie dog holes and goes down,” McGregor answered.

  “Then you would rescue me,” Yank chuckled.

  McGregor shook his head. “By the time we got there your corpse ‘d be so stuck with arrows that you’d look like a porky-pine.”

  “Then perhaps I could take a rifleman with me,” Yank suggested.

  “Why not send a whole rifle squad on horseback and wipe them out?” Marina asked sarcastically.

  “Now there’s an idea.” Yank grinned at her.

  “I wasn’t serious,” she said.

  “It was a fine idea anyway.” Yank nodded at McGregor. “Send a rifle squad.”

  McGregor kicked his horse and rode up beside a rifle squad leader.

  “I could learn to hate you,” Marina said.

  Yank ignored her.

  After a brief discussion with McGregor, the riflemen raced off toward the Indians and McGregor rejoined Yank and Marina.

  “It looks like the Comanches are running away,” Marina said in obvious relief.

  “How far did you tell our men to go?” Yank asked McGregor.

  “I told ‘em not to get out of our sight and to watch for ambushes,” McGregor replied.

  “Qui
te right,” Yank agreed. “Very well done.” He watched as his riflemen reached the top of the hill where they reined in their horses. The squad leader, a man named David Roberts, took off his hat and waved it in the air. Yank raised his hand and signaled him to return to the column. “That Roberts seems a good man.”

  McGregor nodded. “I knew him back…” He looked at Yank. “I know him from the past. Good man.”

  “A deserter from the Queen’s Rangers, I believe,” Yank replied. “Although I don’t generally approve of desertion, I have an even lower opinion of flogging.” He watched the squad riding toward them for a time then looked at McGregor. “He’s a fine horseman too, is our Mr. Roberts. Odd skill for a foot soldier. Very odd.”

  “He was of the Queen’s Lancers before serving in the Rangers,” McGregor said.

  “Ah.” Yank nodded. “So that is where you met him.”

  “There’s a fair price on my head, Colonel,” McGregor replied after a moment.

  Yank offered no answer, kicked his horse and rode out to meet the riflemen. “Did they run completely away, Mr. Roberts?”

  “Nay, sir, they did not,” Roberts replied. “They just run fast enough t’ stay out o’ range and then they stopped when we stopped.”

  “From that I suppose we can assume that they’re familiar with rifles.”

  Roberts smiled. “I should think you shooting that first savage was all the educatin’ they needed.”

  “He was only a bit beyond musket range,” Yank said dismissively.

  “It was more’n two hundred yards and from horseback, sir.”

  “Was it that far? Lucky I didn’t know it at the time or I wouldn’t have risked the shot.”

  Roberts looked beyond Yank at McGregor and laughed. “If that’s what you want us to believe, sir, you’ll get no argument.”

  “Form the column,” Yank shouted. “Prepare to move out.”

  October 18, 1804

  The Red River, Louisiana Purchase

  Yank put his arm around Marina and gestured toward the eastern horizon where a full moon was rising. “Lovers’ moon.”

  “Out here they call that a Comanche Moon.” She pushed his arm away.

  He looked at her. “Why?”

  “The Comanche like to attack during a full moon.”

  “Were you planning to mention that to me any time soon?”

  “I heard McGregor and Roberts talking about it so I thought you knew.”

  “All you people have gone from believing that I know nothing to believing that I know everything,” he grumbled.

  “It is your own fault for being so deceitful.”

  “I suppose that could be true.”

  “Besides. What difference would it make? We’re as prepared for an attack as we can be.”

  “Being prepared and being surprised are not the same things. Given the option, I’d prefer to be prepared and not to be surprised. People make mistakes while they’re adjusting from the shock of a surprise.”

  Marina nodded. “Shock is the Comanche’s main strategy.”

  “How so?”

  “They strike and then run before their enemy has recovered from the shock. Then they rest, leaving their enemy watchful and afraid. Then they strike again when they’ve rested and their enemy’s weary.”

  “Very interesting. What else can you tell me about their tactics?”

  “They’ll come with the moonlight in our faces. The thunder of their horse’s hooves will make it seem that they’re everywhere. When they’re close they’ll howl like wolves and bark like coyotes.” She pointed. “They’ll circle us, right to left once or twice then ride back in the direction whence they came.”

  He was watching her face. “Is there some religious significance in going from right to left?”

  “No.” She looked surprised by the question. “If one is right handed, it is much easier to shoot an arrow or throw a lance to one’s left.”

  He thought a moment. “Oh, yes. I see. Perfectly logical.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Mr. McGregor?”

  “Sir?” McGregor’s voice came from near the remuda.

  “Mrs. Van Buskirk has just told me that the Comanches are likely to come from the direction of the moon and circle us once or twice moving from our right to our left and then withdrawing.”

  “Yes, sir.” McGregor was closer.

  “We have several coils of lightweight utility rope, I think.”

  McGregor appeared beside them. “We do indeed, sir.”

  Yank pointed. “Perhaps if we secured both ends to stout bushes we could trip some of their horses.”

  “Yes, sir. That could work.”

  “Since we know they will be coming from and returning to the east, it might also be possible to position some musketeers outside our perimeter on the north, south and west to catch the Indians in a cross fire.”

  “Those men will be exposed by their muzzle flashes after they fire their first volley,” McGregor replied.

  “Yes. So they should wait until the Indians have gone completely around us once and are withdrawing. One man should fire at a time, then he should lay flat to reload.”

  “Yes sir.” McGregor’s tone of voice showed that he was not enthusiastic.

  “Do you know why they ride from our right to our left, Mr. McGregor?”

  “Most are right handed, sir.”

  “Yes,” Yank agreed. “So to attack the men outside the perimeter the Comanches will have to break their moving formation, thus making themselves easy targets. Or, they will have to shoot their arrows cross-armed. They must guide their horses with knee pressure so the awkward position will also confuse the animals.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll see to it.”

  Yank hugged Marina. “You’ve provided some excellent intelligence, my dear wife.”

  She looked up at him for a moment then pulled away. “I’m surprised that you didn’t know all that already.”

  “The Indians in the east don’t fight from horseback.”

  “Why?”

  “The rough terrain and forests make horses impractical except on roads.”

  “Oh.”

  “When will they come?”

  “Not until the moon is above the mist and bright enough to spoil our night vision.”

  “Mr. McGregor?” Yank called.

  “Sir?”

  “The Comanche will come with the moon behind them. Remind our men not to look at the moon or it will spoil their night vision.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re stringin’ our trip ropes on the east side,” McGregor answered.

  “The bulk of firepower is on the other three quadrants,” another voice added. “We’ll move back to the east side to cover their retreat.”

  “Good lads,” Yank said. “Thank you.” He looked at Marina. “I want you in the center.”

  “In the ditch? No.”

  “Worrying about you could get me killed.”

  “Your foolishness is not my concern. If you don’t trust me with a musket, I can load for others.”

  He decided not to argue. “Go draw a musket and cartridge box.”

  “I have already.” She pointed. “They’re under my duster.”

  “This is going to be a bloody night and could be distressing to a woman of your gentle sensibilities.”

  “Bugger you, John Van Buskirk.”

  ~

  The Comanche war-party struck before midnight with the moon at their backs. They were met with a withering musket volley. The survivors rode on into a second volley. By the time they reached the trip ropes, only half remained. As they began a second circuit, they were engaged by muskets outside the perimeter and within a few seconds, only rider-less-horses remained standing.

  “No prisoners,” Yank shouted. “If you cannot easily capture a horse, shoot it.”

  Marina sank to the ground and let the musket slip from her hands.

  “War is the suspension of humanity,” Yank said to her as he watched his men moving through the moon
light. “It takes some getting used to.”

  “I’ve seen war before,” she replied in a small voice. “This wasn’t war, it was slaughter. They never had a chance.”

  “A chance to kill us?” Yank asked. “A chance to capture and torture us? A chance to rape you and turn you into their slave? Did you really want me to give them those chances?”

  “You are a cruel man,” she replied.

  “With luck, the decisiveness of this action and my cruelty will protect us through the rest of our journey so that you never have to experience this again.”

  “Or this action brings the entire Comanche nation down upon us.”

  “The bands here are separated by great distance and game is so sparse that the task is impossible for an uncivilized people.”

  “You seem to have a low opinion of Indians.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “This is their land. You are the invader.”

  “Invader, am I? Or might I be an explorer, as was your illustrious forefather?”

  “Yes, you are very like my forefather: The man who ended the Aztec culture.”

  “The Aztecs were an evil culture of human sacrifice and bestiality. The world is a better place without them.”

  “Who are you to judge?” She jumped as a pistol went off nearby. “You are certainly not the man I thought you were.”

  “Nor are you the woman I thought you were.” He walked away and soon vanished into the darkness.

  November 1, 1804

  The Red River, Louisiana Purchase

  “Gunfire.” Marina pointed toward the huge rock formation ahead of them.

  Yank reined in his horse, raised his hand to halt the column, then looked over his shoulder and signaled McGregor who was riding at the rear of the column.

  McGregor trotted his horse to join Yank and Marina. “What happened?”

  “It sounds as if Roberts has run into some trouble,” Yank said, pointing at the narrow opening in the rocks where wisps of gun smoke were now visible.

  “I didn’t hear it,” McGregor said. “The grass bein’ so sparse, the animals are hungry and they make an infernal racket.”

  “There was a lot of shooting,” Marina said nervously. “But now it’s stopped.”