Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866

by Terry C. Johnston

  The Irishman whirled and cut a swath through the soldiers, stomping back to his trench.

  As Seamus left, Glover watched a young private crumple to his knees, gagging, his belly throwing up what bacon and hardtack was left from breakfast.

  “It’s … just like he said it’d be.” The soldier choked, then wiped his hand across his mouth.

  White helped the young man struggle to his feet. “Just like who said it’d be?”

  The boy pointed to the creek. “Him, Reverend. The lieutenant. Daniels talked with me last night, most of my watch. Couldn’t sleep. Had a nightmare … ’bout his own death. That dream he told me … ’bout the Indian attack—it’s all come to pass here today!”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “P-Peters.”

  “Private Peters, I want you to remember something,” White soothed as he helped the boy stumble toward the west wall of the corral. “If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off. If thy eye offend thee, pluck it out. We have been offended. Oh, merciful Lord, have we been offended! And mark my words, Private. We’ll do much cutting and plucking before this day is out!”

  * * *

  The cool water had done much to bring three of Glover’s wounded around so they could return to the trenches in time for a renewed attack on the corral.

  In their first charge up the slope the Sioux didn’t rein up out of range for the soldier guns. Instead, they circled, continuing down the slope, then raced right back toward the corral in a frontal attack.

  “They mean to ride over us, Donegan!” Marr shouted in warning. “You got that Henry of yours ready?”

  “These h’athens’ve learned about sojur guns.” Donegan tried to spit, but found his mouth full of cotton. “You and me have a wee bit of a surprise to hand ’em, won’t we, Cap’n?”

  “Do what damage you can, Seamus,” Marr encouraged. “Boys, you best hurry for they don’t figure to give you time to reload!”

  “Get your powder down quick, brethren!” White exhorted. “Let not the ball tarry behind.”

  “You are a one, Reverend!” Terrel roared loudly. “We get our arses pulled outta this fire, I’ll give thought to changing me faith from Catholic!”

  “Why, Sergeant … I’ll take that as a compliment! And a promise as well.” White brought the rifle to his cheek.

  Instead of gliding away along the west wall of the corral as they had done all afternoon, the warriors thundered on in a red wave. Here and there a pony stumbled in a prairie-dog hole, a rider sprawling. Yet for every one who fell, it seemed three more appeared in his place. The tidal wave rose, drumming closer and closer.

  When close enough, the two repeaters barked and chattered. Marr and Donegan pumped their Henrys as fast as they found new targets. White fired, then dropped the heavy, one-shot Springfield and pulled the pepperbox from his belt, preparing for a hot time of it at close quarters.

  The more he fired the weapon, the more Donegan liked the way the Henry bucked in his hands, the smooth action of the lever, the way he could lay the front blade on a brown chest and squeeze, assured that warrior would tumble off the back of his pony.

  “Holy Mither of Mary,” he marveled out loud, “this is some sweet rifle!”

  “Your partner there’d loan me his gun, my Irish friend,” Terrel called out lustily, “we two’d show these red bastards what real shooting’s all ab—”

  Marr turned in time to watch the sergeant pitch backward out of the trench, his long rifle slowly tumbling from his grasp as he stumbled among the mules lashed between two freight wagons. Glover had watched the arrow hit the wiry sergeant. He found himself at Terrel’s side before the soldier had settled in the dust.

  “The … g-gun, me boy,” Terrel whispered roughly. “Use … use it.”

  Without hesitating, Glover raked the big rifle into his shoulder, kneeling right beside the sergeant’s body. Squeeze and fire. He helped turn the tide. One final wave of warriors swept over the battlefield, leaning from their nimble ponies to drag away their wounded and dead.

  Glover rose to his feet, shaking. Squeezing on the musket trigger still. Yanking and pulling and … until Marr grabbed his hand.

  “It’s over, son. Over for now.”

  The photographer nodded, letting the captain take the gun before he fell to his knees beside the sergeant.

  “It’s only me stomach, boy.” Terrel tried to laugh weakly.

  Glover looked down at the growing patch of moisture spreading across the blue tunic. In the center of it Terrel’s dirty paw clutched a feathered shaft. He swallowed hard.

  “Not to worry, I tell you…” Terrel’s eyes misted as he tried to focus on the faces gathering close above him.

  “That’s right,” Donegan soothed, on his knees, leaning over the soldier. He blinked his own stinging eyes. The shaft trembled, heaving in with a tremor, out with a whimper. “Not to worry, Sergeant.”

  “Shit.” Terrel fell deadpan a moment. “You know better than that, Paddy. Man takes a hit in the belly, it don’t hurt all that much. Just … just his ol’ heart floods his belly till there ain’t no more Irish red left to pump.” He turned his head to the side, spitting up some bright fluid.

  Donegan wiped the sergeant’s chin as one of the men moved up with some muslin bandages.

  “Sergeant,” the photographer from Philadelphia whispered, “you got nothing to worry about now.”

  “Shit. This bleeding Irishman here with me knows better than that, boy.” Terrel coughed more dark blood up. “That’s right. You, Irishman.” He gazed steadily at Donegan. “What with all you know ’bout war … and men dying.”

  “Save your strength——”

  “Maybe you can fool these others, hiding outta uniform the way y’ar. But you’re more a damned soldier than any these others, Paddy. More a warrior than them red bastards what killed me for sure,” Terrel replied.

  “Hush,” Donegan prodded. “Say it after me: ‘O, my God…’”

  Terrel seemed to smile within that face of his gone gray. “Last rites, eh, Paddy?”

  “‘I am heartily sorry…’”

  “… ‘for having offended thee—’” Terrel choked on his own fluid. “Your kind won’t fool me, Irishman. Just a shame we both come through that big, dirty war to die here … in this dirty, little war.”

  “… ‘I detest my sins most grievously…’”

  “Difference is, Paddy—” Terrel broke off in a spasm, coughing up dark blood. “Difference is that out in this frigging war, nobody’ll remember a one of us.”

  With the sergeant’s next breath, Seamus recognized the gurgle at the back of Terrel’s throat. A heartbeat later the sergeant lay quiet. Seamus eventually slid his hand over the edge of the dark, moist stain. Hoping to feel the slightest movement.

  Seamus Donegan lowered the body to the ground, turned and loped away before any of the rest would see his tears.

  Chapter 13

  Abigail prayed the Irishman wouldn’t find out she had watched him cry. She knew that would shame a man like Donegan. Though he had every cause to cry. Twice this day she had watched him do what must be done. First for Lieutenant Templeton and that bloody arrow. Then for the sergeant who only needed someone to know he had lived, to know he had died.

  Lieutenant Wands had Peters build a fire near the wounded men. Having pulled the last of their firewood from the sowbelly under the wagons, he used the greasy sage to keep the tiny fires burning. Then Wands put Pvt. William Wallace to work butchering a dead mule.

  “Can’t be one dropped back this morning,” Captain Marr advised. “If these men going to eat mule meat, Private, best you make that meat fresh.”

  He sliced each strip from the mule’s muscular haunch, sniffing at the stringy meat to tell what was palatable. At least he figured the meat could be made edible, what with a little cooking over that smoky fire Peters was nursing. Soon enough both privates had the bloody strips of mule hung over the tiny flames, suspended on bayonets they jammed in the
soil, circling the fire-ring.

  Through most of the afternoon Abigail, Katie Wands and her colored servant Laura had bandaged and fed the severely wounded. Three more had been added to their number after the last rush which claimed Terrel. Three more to bleed in the center of their desperate, little compound. Every one of them waiting to die as the shadows lengthened and the sun fell headlong toward the Big Horns.

  Abigail Noone crawled from soldier to soldier. Scraping what dirt she could from their faces. Brushing away the insects that gathered wherever the sticky blood collected. Earlier in the day ants and grub beetles had discovered the dead horse and mules. Searching out the stench of decaying flesh growing putrid beneath an unforgiving sun. By late afternoon the insects were busy on the wounded.

  “Frank?”

  Noone turned, finding her standing behind him at the edge of the shallow trench, wringing her hands in her once-starched dimity dress. Now it hung in lumpy folds, smeared with the blood and vomit of the wounded.

  “Abby.” He got up, nudging her back where they could talk in private. “The baby?”

  “She’s sleeping now. Katie’s watching her. I … I need to feel you.”

  She hurled herself into his arms, still not sure how she was going to ask this of him. How any woman could ask it of the father of her child. She brought her face away from his chest, lifting it, inviting. Frank kissed her fiercely, ignoring the taste of stale whiskey on Abby’s tongue.

  She tore away, sobbing. Able to control her tears no longer. A cheek finally pressed against his chest, Abigail began. “Don’t let them kill the baby … our baby, Frank! Please.”

  “What’re you talking about?” He held her away from him for a moment, until she wriggled back into his embrace.

  “Don’t you see, Frank? The Indians wanted the baby. They’ve wanted her all along. It’s as plain as I’m standing here. They told us they’d steal her if they had to—”

  “You’re talking utter nonsense, Abby,” he soothed, his own mind fogged in fatigue and fear.

  “No,” she argued. “They wanted her at that first camp north of Laramie. Remember? For God’s sake—let them have her before … before the end.”

  Frank slowly held her away from him again, studying Abigail’s stained face, eyes swollen from crying. “The end, Abby?”

  She nodded, sobbing uncontrollably. “We’re not going to make it. But she can! They want her. She’ll live! All I want is my baby to live. Don’t let her die with us!”

  Abby’s knees went out from under her. Frank caught her as she fell, lowering his wife to the ground, where he clutched her against him, leaning back against a wagon wheel as he cradled her in his arms. She felt so very small whimpering against him now. Gently he stroked her hair, whispering his assurance.

  “I’ll see that she lives, Abby. With God as my witness. What happens to us won’t happen to her. You must believe me.”

  He rocked her back and forth in the lengthening shadows, cradling her as the sun sank lower and the breezes chilled, sliding off the foothills. Frank pulled the shawl round Abby’s shoulders, whispering into her auburn hair.

  “I’ll see that she lives—on my oath. I’m her father, for God’s sake.”

  Back in the shadows behind that wagon, Reverend White sighed, his old heart shaken. Moments ago he had stepped outside the corral to relieve himself in privacy, slipping back to the circle when Frank had pulled Abigail away from prying ears. White found himself caught with nowhere to turn, embarrassed to overhear Noone’s secret promise to his wife. As he listened, White kneaded the sore muscles of his left arm where Abigail herself had pulled free the broken arrow shaft.

  Praying that no one else must know their secret.

  Careful now of where he laid each boot, the minister crept along the backside of the wagon, sliding into the corral several yards from the couple.

  “Lieutenant Wands.”

  “Reverend. Care for a slice of mule?”

  He waved his wrinkled, waxy hand. “No, thank you. I’ve come to appeal to you. For the mercy of our little band.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Intrigued, Wands rose along with his voice.

  “One of us must make a ride for help.”

  “I know,” Wands admitted sadly. “But I can’t spare a single one. Any of my men capable of sitting a horse would surely be capable of holding a rifle. I can’t allow the loss——”

  “I’m not requesting permission of you as my superior officer, Lieutenant. Best you understand that.” His words yanked Wands up short. “I’m a civilian.” Wands nodded in answer. “You’ve got no authority over me, Lieutenant.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He wanted to say this as gently as possible. “You’re a civilian destined for a military post in the Mountain District. Traveling along a military road, guarded by the army. You are under my authority, Reverend. Like it or not.”

  “Then,” White grew thoughtful, drawing himself up, “you’ll either agree to my appeal on the grounds of humanity, or you’ll have to shoot me as a deserter.”

  “A deserter?” Wands squeaked, watching Donegan and Marr inch closer to the fire and the argument.

  “That’s what I’d be if I rode out of here—on that strong horse of yours over there. Right, Lieutenant?”

  “Well … I don’t——”

  “The way I’ve got it figured, son, I can make it back to Reno in four hours.”

  “Hard riding. Perhaps.” Wands agreed reluctantly.

  “How long Captain Proctor and his boys take to get ready to march?”

  Wands stared at the sun impaled on the sharp peaks. “Best you should figure two hours from the time you ride in till the time they march out.”

  “So if it takes me four hours to ride horseback there … it means they’ll be at least twice that long marching back here.”

  “Even double-time,” Wands added.

  “If they’re able, Lieutenant,” Donegan argued. “They’ll be marching that road in the dark.”

  Wands shook his head, then stared into the dirty, wrinkled face before him. He had to smile at the gray-headed old man. “You are something, Reverend. After all you’ve done today—now you’re volunteering to go on this fool’s errand.”

  “Not just me,” White answered. “I want one of your young ones to ride with me. In the event one of us … one doesn’t make it.”

  “No! Absolutely not, Reverend. I’ve heard enough of your nonsense. Now understand this, all of you. This cockamamy idea of White’s doesn’t hold water. Fifteen hours it’ll take. Hell, fifteen hours from now … that sun’ll be high in the sky once again. And by then…” He paused, sucking in a long breath like dry rawhide dragged over sand. “By then I figure there won’t be a one of us left here to rescue anyway.” Wands let that sour a moment before he plunged ahead. “No, Reverend. I need you here. With the rest of us. With me, for the love of God.”

  White paused, studying the faces of the troopers gathered round him. He gazed down at those faces etched with pain. “Sorry, son. I don’t figure a one of your soldiers will shoot me in the back if I walk over there and climb on your horse.”

  “Perhaps they won’t,” Wands growled, feeling like he’d been backed into a corner. “But you’re forgetting that I will.”

  “No.” White shook his head. “Especially you, Lieutenant. You won’t shoot me.”

  “L-Let him go, Alex.”

  That voice shook Wands to his heels. He looked down, seeing Lieutenant Templeton struggling up on one elbow.

  “George——”

  “Let White go. If I gotta make it an order——”

  Wands shook his head. “But you’re … the wound—perhaps your thinking is fogged.”

  “The reverend cleared the ravine!” Lieutenant Bradley urged.

  “That’s right!” Peters cheered. “He cleared the ravine. If any one of us can make it to Reno and bring back some … some help—the reverend here can.”

  “Damn right!” you
ng Fuller agreed.

  “If I can’t change your mind…” Wands whispered when things grew quiet. “Take my horse.”

  “And a volunteer can ride mine.” Captain Marr pulled his thoroughbred stallion into the group. “Finest animal this side of Independence, Missouri. He’s got the bottom to make the ride.”

  “Wallace?” Wands asked, waiting for the young private to step forward. “Will you go … William?”

  He saluted smartly and nodded. Never had he had an officer address him by his first name. He glanced at White eagerly. “The two of us make a dandy ride of it—won’t we, Reverend?”

  “Best of luck, Reverend.” Wands saluted the preacher, then presented his hand.

  White shook it. “Won’t be luck I’ll need, Lieutenant. I’ll count on your prayers.”

  With a rustle of cloth Abigail and Katie pressed forward, brushing their tearstained cheeks against White’s before he was helped atop Wands’s mount. Boyish William Wallace stood petrified and red-faced as both women kissed his cheeks. Marr and Donegan boosted the young soldier onto the thoroughbred’s back.

  “He starts to fight the bit, son,” the captain explained, “you give him his head. He’ll get you to hell and back if he has to. Bring him back to me if you can, soldier. God’s speed, gentlemen!”

  With that, Marr slapped his stallion on the rump and sent him off. Marr wheeled away, swiping at his nose, knowing the odds of ever again seeing that beloved animal.

  White whirled the army horse in a tight circle, saluting the compound’s brave defenders. “May you wear God’s protection like a shield about your shoulders! Mrs. Noone—I’ll expect to kiss your daughter’s tender cheek when I return!”

  Startled, Abigail watched the old man yank his reins to the side, bringing the army horse round beside young Wallace. Both riders whipped their mounts over the tongues of two wagons, galloping straight toward the sharp slope dropping from the east side of the knoll. Almost instantly a wild cry arose from the warriors milling down the western slope. Half a hundred leaped atop their ponies, beginning a race down the south ravine to cut off the escape of the white riders.