Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  “Yes. Wyeth, bring up the men; Dern, the kids.”

  We heard the clanking of chains, the shuffling of feet in the dust, and then the bent men and the humbled children emerging from the shadows. My rising gorge forced the words from my mouth: “You villain! You’ve bound them like prisoners.”

  “Only way to keep track of ’em; might miss their meals otherwise, mightn’t they? They’ve had everything provided: work, food . . .”

  “Chains.”

  “Yeah, chains—no charge for that. Now about that cannon . . .”

  My mind quickly placed Larsen in tactical perspective. He stood at the summit of a triangle, captives flanking him on either side to the base of the Trading Post. On a parallel line with Larsen, extending to his right and left, was a ragamuffin force, rifle-toting Indians intermixed with gunmen like Wyeth. I reckoned he had about a dozen men or more on either side; that made the odds at least three to one in his favor. Our hidden sword-wielding Chinamen had no rifles or revolvers, but their capacious silken sleeves held their own surprise.

  “We’ll unlimber the cannon when you unchain your captives.”

  “You know, I could take that cannon from you right now.”

  “You could try; you’d also be dead. I’d drop you before your men knew what happened.”

  “And you’d be dead too, Armstrong.”

  “In some ways, I’m dead already. Now you unchain those boys, or you’ll learn what happens when a soul goes to hell.”

  That seemed to unnerve him a little. “Wyeth, Dern, see to it.”

  I don’t think a word was said, but you could sense the inward rejoicing of the boys as they were freed from the grip of those chafing, biting, iron shackles. As the chains came off, some boys rubbed their ankles; others, more boisterous, swung their legs, rediscovering their freedom. The men were more subdued, not daring to move much, and quite obviously bracing themselves for whatever might happen next. They watched curiously as Hercules pushed the unlimbered cannon to the front.

  “Now then, Larsen,” I said, “send over the boys and the men. The cannon is yours; the limber too. We’ll keep the wagon. If any of those men and boys can’t walk, they can ride. For your sake, Larsen, I hope they’re not many.”

  The men, though emancipated, were still unsure of their freedom, and shuffled forward with cautious backward glances at their former prison guards. The boys, on the other hand, were willing to take a chance. They sprinted to us. Billy Jack jumped down to shepherd the boys and hoisted two of the bigger ones up to take the reins and drive the wagon. Larsen scowled and grimaced like Simon Legree, and his teeth glimmered in the darkness.

  “All right, Armstrong, you’ve got your ungrateful, worthless rabble. Now clear off and leave me that cannon.”

  Whispered instructions, initiated by Billy Jack, passed through the boys and men like a cool summer breeze.

  “What’s all that jabbering about?”

  “It’s the sound of freedom, Larsen. We’re organizing our men for the march out.”

  “Well get on with it!”

  I pulled gently on the reins so that Marshal Ney eased out of there like a gunman backing out of a saloon. Behind us erupted a chorus: “For he’s a jolly good fellow, for Marshal Armstrong’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny!”

  A spark shot up from the barrel of the cannon; Larsen’s men drew back; and then crawling from the barrel, like a worm from an apple, came Fu Yu. He dropped, feet first, to the ground and his hands popped from his sleeves, holding two glittering sticks; he waved them, sending off pea-sized sparks in all directions.

  “What the devil is this?” said Larsen.

  “Giddy-up!” shouted the boy teamster, and the freed slaves trotted or quick marched after him

  On cue, the magician tossed aside the sticks, and in their place appeared two small bombs—fireworks really, a Chinese specialty—which had rolled down from his sleeves. He bowled them at the enemy and they exploded in spectacular fashion, a rainbow of colors shooting into the sky, with a symphonic frenzy of whizz-bangery soon joined by the blood-curdling “AAAAiiiiiiiieeeee!” of the acrobats, who came tumbling out, hurling fireworks bombs of their own, before drawing and swirling their swords. My Winchester and Beauregard’s and Billy Jack’s joined the explosive chorus, and while Larsen’s blackguards returned fire, they were running away, some of them with their hair smoking or their pants smoldering from the fireworks. I could hear the horses in Larsen’s corral, about thirty yards to the west, whinnying and colliding against the wood railings in their panic.

  I was tempted to press the attack, but Beauregard said, “General, sir, we got what we came for,” and I had to agree.

  “Billy Jack, sound recall for the Chinamen.”

  Billy Jack bugled our signal for retreat, and the Chinamen responded instantly, their discipline as sound as that of Napoleon’s Old Guard. We backed away in good order—cautiously, but with due regard for speed—and when it became apparent that Larsen’s men were too shocked to pursue us we turned our focus to hurrying along the former slaves to the safety of fortified Bloody Gulch. Beauregard and I jumped our horses over the trench, the boys and men slid down one side and climbed up the other, and we got the unloaded wagon over the bridge before it collapsed. Ives, who was waiting for us, handed the acrobats axes. Together they demolished the remains of the bridge and turned the resulting woodpile into spikes to slow an invader and affright his horses.

  The reunion of the long-separated families was touching in the extreme; the tears shed could have flooded the trench around the town. Beauregard, with that deep concern for others that is one of his abiding characteristics, seemed on the lookout for any young woman not being reunited with a husband; he was dedicated to the proposition that no woman should be left without a dancing partner. I, with higher thoughts, sought out Isabel. I wanted to ensure she found her father—and to protect her from unwanted attentions. Beauregard, however, was already at her side.

  “Well, hello, Yankee General, sir, isn’t this a happy event? You know Miss Isabel, of course, and this is her father, Mr. Cyrus Johnson.”

  “I’m much obliged to you, Marshal,” said Mr. Johnson, who was dressed in a torn pink undershirt and grey trousers. He was white-haired, red-faced—from the sun or the foundry work or the exertion of running I don’t know—and had inquisitive blue eyes that reminded me of an owl’s. “It sounds like you had quite a battle on your hands, quite a battle—but quick, though, wasn’t it?”

  “A triumph of strategy, Mr. Johnson, and really only an opening engagement in a greater war—the war of liberating this town from the greed of Seth Larsen.”

  “Greed—yes, yes, that is exactly the issue. Larsen is consumed by greed—and we have all suffered for it, but now reunited with my daughter, well . . .”

  “Yes, I know how you feel, sir,” interrupted Beauregard. “It has been my pleasure—or I should say, honor, sir—to be your daughter’s guardian. I have come to deeply appreciate her character—she is a fine, fine, young woman.”

  “Yes, she is, isn’t she? Her guardian, did you say?”

  “Not in any legal sense, sir, not in the sense that Marshal Armstrong is connected to so many of the young ladies of the chorus who perform at his saloon, but in the sense of shielding her from Larsen’s Indians and ruffians.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “I do not mean to alarm you, sir, but we have had a few dangerous moments.”

  “Really? How dangerous?”

  “Oh, daddy, you mustn’t trouble yourself,” said Isabel.

  “She’s quite right, sir; the tales of how I saved your daughter’s life are quite harrowing, and now is not the time; now is a time for celebrating.”

  “Saved her life?”

  “You, as her father, sir, would surely have done no less. I acted only in loco parentis.”

  “In what?”

  “In your stead, sir.”

  I could take no more. I poli
tely but firmly shoved Beauregard aside. “What he means to say, Mr. Johnson, is that he and I have done everything possible to guarantee the safety of your daughter—and as you can see, she is quite well.”

  “Quite well, yes, quite well, quite well indeed. I must tell you, Marshal, this ranks as one of the happiest days of my life. Reunited with my Isabel, seeing all this happiness around me. Why, why, I’m nearly overcome.”

  I was distracted for but an instant, patting my pockets for a handkerchief, when Beauregard squeezed past me and took both Johnsons by the elbow. “Come, sir, let us—you and I and Isabel—step into the saloon. I assure you, sir, that this is no ordinary saloon; it is a perfectly decent place for women and children. The marshal, in fact, boards them there. We can celebrate with a glass of sarsaparilla—or something stronger, if you prefer.”

  “Oh, I have no objection to something stronger—especially after what we’ve all been through.”

  “You are a gentleman, sir, after my own heart.”

  I sighed as he escorted them away. Isabel offered me a long, tender, over-the-shoulder glance; it was so full of sincere admiration that I could but return her look with the hope that my eyes expressed my deepest appreciation and understanding of her feelings. And then I stood, alone, the lonely hero, for what must have been a full five seconds, before a pair of small, thin, feminine hands embraced my arm, the one with your picture on it. It was Rachel.

  “Oh, General; oh, Golden Hair,” she teased, rubbing her knuckles into my side. “You have done it again, haven’t you?”

  “Rachel, you might be my ward, but don’t take liberties.”

  “General, you and I have been through a lot together.”

  “Yes, my dear, we have.”

  “You are a one-man army . . .”

  “Well, I had a bit of help.”

  “You are a liberator—like Abraham Lincoln!”

  “No, Rachel, not like Lincoln. He was a Republican. What this country needs is a good Democrat in favor of lower taxes, a return to sound money, free trade, a smaller, reformed government that spends more on the army, and honest administration—especially after two terms of that baboon Grant. Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, I do so agree, General; I do so agree.”

  “Well, had things gone differently in June, I might have been tapped—who knows?—by the Democratic Party to carry their standard. As it is, I can only toil in anonymity, liberating men, women, and children held captive by a corrupt Indian trader, a government monopolist, a western carpetbagger—he does have a carpet bag, doesn’t he?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he does.”

  “Yes, it fits, doesn’t it? The swine. I bet he voted for Grant.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “No, I don’t doubt it either. Our country was not meant to be run by government traders, it was meant to be run by we the people, working on our own, building farms, like Delingplane or whatever that Englishman’s name was, or Isabel and her father.”

  “I think I should like to live on a farm—as long as it was safe from Indians.”

  “And that’s the one place,” I said, warming to my subject, “where our corrupt government should be doing more—protecting our people from savages. If you saw what I had to deal with to get adequate supplies in the Army, you’d be shocked. They take every economy they can and then go and waste it all on giving weapons to monsters like Larsen and the Indians.”

  “General, perhaps we should go to the saloon. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It is righteous anger, my dear, righteous anger. But yes, let us go, there is nothing like a soothing glass of Alderney to quench the fires of anger.”

  “Alderney?”

  “Milk, dearest one, milk.”

  So, it was that Rachel and I sidled up to the bar next to Beauregard, Isabel, and her father.

  “Why, Yankee General, sir, I thought we had left you to your myriad duties. But then what duty is greater than acting as a guardian to your ward?”

  I said nothing, which only emboldened him. “Mr. Johnson, sir, might I introduce you to Miss Rachel Armstrong, one of the marshal’s wards?”

  “Charmed,” he said. Then to Beauregard, “You say, she’s one of his wards?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m not quite sure how many there are. Quite a few among Miss Saint-Jean’s showgirls, I believe.”

  “Is that so?” he said, giving me a peculiar look.

  “Have you ever bothered to count them?” asked Beauregard, grabbing a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar.

  “I take it as my duty, Mr. Johnson—as a lawman—to protect the innocent, to serve the weak, to apprehend wrongdoers.”

  “And to guide rehearsals—he’s quite good at that.”

  “Mr. Johnson, you know as well as I do that the West is a dangerous place for women. The fair sex needs protection. I take that duty very seriously.”

  “I can attest to that, sir. Never, in all my years have I seen a Yankee more considerate of women—and more blessed I might say in the numbers under his care—than Marshal Armstrong. Were he not an upright Christian man, he might be a sultan with a harem.”

  “You will take that back, you scandal-mongering secessionist.”

  “What, sir, that you are an upright Christian man?’

  “No, that I am a sultan with a harem.”

  “But you misunderstand me, sir. I meant to pay you a compliment.”

  “You can pay for our drinks instead, you bourbon-soaked rebel. I should warn you, Mr. Johnson, that Mr. Gillette is a professional gambler and an inveterate drinker.”

  “You don’t say? Why, I like a little game of cards myself. And my father always held that a drink, in moderation mind you, was good for the heart.”

  “So, true, sir, so true. If a man cannot enjoy a simple game of cards—why, the mind staggers at the thought. And as for drink, sir, yes moderation is the key.”

  I’d had enough of this and led Rachel away to a table, to which Smithers—the hotelier acting as a waiter—delivered my glass of Alderney and Rachel’s glass of champagne.

  “Would you like a sip?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s delicious—and the color of your hair. Can I still call you Golden Hair?” Her eyes glowed, as if a match were burning behind them—a match lit by a previous glass of bubbly, I guessed.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “All right, then, General.”

  “Marshal.”

  “Such an adventurous time we’ve had together. To think it started out just you and me.”

  I looked her full in the face, and I would be lying if I didn’t confess—and it was not just the Alderney speaking—that she was an astonishingly handsome woman. It put me in a philosophical mood.

  “Yes,” I said, “it did start like that, didn’t it? And to think here we are, godparents to a soon-to-be liberated town.”

  “Godparents?”

  “In a manner of speaking—charged with this town’s physical, moral, and spiritual safety.”

  “That’s your job, General, not mine.”

  I drained my glass of Alderney. “So it is—and a new challenge awaits: the siege of Bloody Gulch. I must prepare.”

  She gripped my forearm. “So soon? You just freed all these people. Shouldn’t you celebrate?”

  “I would like to, ma’am, and I begrudge no man his share of joy, but a commander is burdened with duty.”

  “It must be terribly taxing.”

  “Yes, indeed it is. Some think that a soldier’s life is mere fighting or brutality; and there is that, of course. But for the officer, the commanding officer, especially above the rank of major, it requires courage, yes; muscle, of course—feel that arm, girl—and steely nerves, without a doubt; but most of all high intellect.”

  “Oh, I can see that.”

  “I know some people think I’m impulsive, but they’re wrong; I’m trained, and by my own lights well read, in the art—the art, mind you—of war. Yes, a
n officer needs daring and dash. He wants his men eager and straining at the leash, but as a commander, everything I’ve ever done on a battlefield has been the result of study. I study every military situation that might arise; I imagine it. And when I become engaged in a campaign or a battle and a great emergency arises, my mind focuses on everything that I have ever read or studied or imagined. That’s why my decisions are instantaneous—because my mind instantly sorts through all my hours of study, every scenario I’ve imagined, every counter to every move of the enemy that I had considered. The result: victory. That, dear, is why I was the Boy General; that is how I became a Cavalier in Buckskin . . . But, Rachel, I apologize, I must be boring you.”

  “No, General, you’re not. I’ve been away from educated people for a long time. You’re a great man, General, a fascinating, brilliant, and courageous man, and I love listening to you talk, just being in your presence.”

  Truer words from the heart, I expect, were never spoken, so I said gently, “Yes, I can see that. I quite understand, my dear, and if it is a comfort to you, I will sit with you and drink Alderney until the cows come home.” Of course, as the cows were already home, in our improvised farmyard, I stayed up all night, during the course of which I received a seemingly endless parade of grateful men, women, and children who came by to pay their respects, offer me their thanks, and tell my ward Rachel how lucky she was to have me as her protector.

  True enough. But the larger truth, of course, is that the mistress I truly serve, the one who gives strength to my stern right arm, is you, darling Libbie. But that is a secret shared only between us, a crazy old Indian tattooist, and those who see me shirtless or with my sleeves rolled up—and I try to save that for the truly deserving.

  I did in fact roll up my sleeves in the parlor of the hotel where I waited on coffee that morning while everyone else slept off the evening’s festivities. I was drawing up battle plans—contingencies for various siege scenarios I could envision, and while I remained confident in our defenses, many of the scenarios would have struck most men as nightmares.

  We were massively outgunned. By what exact numbers it was impossible to know. Our enemy knew we were pinned down, if not by him then by the civilians we were pledged to guard. He had his own private army, now supplemented by professional gunmen who likely knew neither shame nor honor. Still, save for one charge—foolhardy, my critics will say; betrayed, I will aver—into the maw of an Indian army larger than anyone had ever seen, I had never lost a battle, and I would not lose this one. There was too much at stake.