Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  I looked down at you on my arm, and it seemed as though your portrait came alive and spoke to me these words: “Take courage, Autie. Ask Miss Saint-Jean to put on a show to calm everyone’s fears. Your genius will win through again.” And I thought, “Yes, darling Libbie, as always, you are exactly right.”

  As I was thinking this, Beauregard stepped into the parlor. I was glad to see him, because an officer should always be an early riser, and he looked none the worse for wear.

  “I trust you had a pleasant evening with the Johnsons, Major?”

  “Yes, quite pleasant, sir. And you with your ward, and your well-deserved adulation?”

  Smithers, whom I’d earlier rousted out of bed, stumbled in with my cup of coffee. I sent him away to fetch another for Beauregard.

  “The time for bunting and confetti, for champagne and celebration is over, Major. We need to think about the looming siege.”

  “You’re right about that, Yankee General, sir. I assume you have a plan.”

  “Yes. First, we’ll stage a show for the families of Bloody Gulch.”

  “A show? You mean a military show? Raid Larsen?”

  “I mean nothing of the sort, Major. I mean a proper show. I mean singing and dancing and magic—and card tricks too, if you like. Morale is vital to any defensive strategy, and we need civilian morale high for the challenges ahead. You understand?”

  Smithers handed Beauregard a cup of coffee, and then wandered away, as if sleepwalking.

  “Well, sir, we had no shows at Petersburg—and never heard tell that Vicksburg did either.”

  “Precisely my point, Major.”

  “Your point, sir, is that the Southern Confederacy was defeated by a lack of proper entertainment?”

  “Indeed, it wasn’t just Sherman who crushed the South. Your people lost hope. But imagine if Miss Saint-Jean’s dancers had toured Dixie. Imagine their high-kicking to ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag.’ Would that not have strengthened Southern resistance?”

  “Well, Yankee General, sir, I can’t honestly say . . .”

  “Your man Jefferson Davis, though a Democrat, had too narrow a view.”

  “Well, I didn’t know him, sir, but he was a soldier, a Secretary of War, a United States Senator . . .”

  “That’s all very well, Major, but that’s exactly what I mean. He had the curriculum vitae of a leader, the knowledge, the substance one would want, but that is only half of the equation. One must understand the human heart; one must know how to inspire—it is in that half of the equation that art displaces science.”

  “And you believe, sir, that the art of the cancan is crucial to our defense of Bloody Gulch?”

  “It seems obvious when you say it, doesn’t it? But that too is part of leadership—seeing the obvious point that everyone else, in their convention-bound thinking, misses. I’m glad you saw it, Major.”

  “Yes, sir, well, I assume the responsibility for the show can be delegated to Miss Saint-Jean, and that you and I can apply ourselves to the more traditional, tactical aspects of defending a position such as we have here.”

  “It is, of course, a question of a hierarchy of priorities.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And in that light, I’m sure you will agree that my focus should be on the show.”

  “I see—and what should my focus be, sir?”

  “Naturally, you will want to perfect your card trick act.”

  “Naturally.”

  “As you have not performed on stage before, I assume it will require a great deal of practice and rehearsals.”

  “I assume so.”

  “But, Major, you and I are men of action who require little sleep. Any spare time we have from rehearsals and planning for the show we can devote to military planning, narrowly speaking.”

  “I’m gratified to hear that, sir. I reckon I’m better suited to that than the stage.”

  “ ‘Know thyself,’ Major; that is a worthy admission.”

  “Thank you, sir. I see you’re already sketching out some plans. Might I see them?”

  And so I spent the rest of the morning ignoring the pressing responsibility of organizing the show in order to discuss lesser tactical matters with Beauregard. But one must take advantage of circumstances, and as Beauregard was awake and at the breakfast table and everyone else remained slumbering, it seemed an acceptable diversion of my time from matters theatrical.

  That afternoon, however, my focus inevitably shifted to Miss Saint-Jean. She again reminded me of Robin Hood, with her interesting feathered cap, but this time her theme was green—green hat, green corset, green stockings, even green high-heeled shoes. We sat at a table before the saloon stage. Most of the children were outside running and shouting, though a few girls were sitting at tables playing quietly with dolls.

  “I remember when I was their age,” she said. “You know, the great thing about being a kid is believing everything’s possible.”

  “Everything is possible,” I said, “if you’re willing to work for it.”

  “Yeah, well, what’s on your mind, Marshal? You get full credit for the rescue—now how do we feed these people, and keep from getting shot or scalped?”

  I dismissed these elementary questions with a brush of the hand and turned the conversation to what really mattered: rehearsals, new acts versus the standard show (which of course none of the captives had yet seen), and whether the farm women of Bloody Gulch should be performers or members of the audience.

  It took Miss Saint-Jean a surprisingly long while to understand the importance of these questions. She wanted to talk about the siege—and I suspect it offended her, as a keen woman of business, to discuss theatrical matters in which there would be no immediate profit (because I intended the show to be performed free of charge). In the end, though, I got the answers I wanted. We came up with a rehearsal schedule that would allow for a full-scale performance in three days’ time; and we decided to stick with the standard show, because even it needed some brushing up and she wanted to stick with the true professionals (and Rachel) and not involve the farm women.

  I came away from our meeting thoroughly satisfied and confident in our future. I walked the streets of Bloody Gulch with a jaunty air, whistling “Garry Owen.” The freed boys saw me, fell in behind me, and were soon marching in step. I sang so that they could learn the words:

  Let Bacchus’ sons be not dismayed

  But join with me, each jovial blade

  Come, drink and sing and lend your aid

  To help me with the chorus:

  Instead of spa, we’ll drink brown ale

  And pay the reckoning on the nail;

  No man for debt shall go to jail

  From Garryowen in glory.

  We’ll beat the bailiffs out of fun,

  We’ll make the mayor and sheriffs run

  We are the boys no man dares dun

  If he regards a whole skin.

  Instead of spa, we’ll drink brown ale

  And pay the reckoning on the nail;

  No man for debt shall go to jail

  From Garryowen in glory.

  Our hearts so stout have got us fame

  For soon ’tis known from whence we came

  Where’er we go they fear the name

  Of Garryowen in glory.

  Instead of spa, we’ll drink brown ale

  And pay the reckoning on the nail;

  No man for debt shall go to jail

  From Garryowen in glory.

  The boys were quick learners, admired the tune (as well they should), and I soon had the makings of a regimental band. I set them to making drums and whittling whistles. With the boys thus occupied, I wondered what I could do with their fathers. They were civilians, of course, but even civilians have their uses. Beauregard and Ives were standing by the trench, discussing additional fortifications, when I accosted them.

  “Well, Yankee General, sir, I’d say two things. One, as farmers, they can slop the hogs and take care of the far
myard. We could also use a labor detail to help us build lunettes in front of the hotel and the saloon.”

  “Well then, Major, you shall have them.”

  So—in short order, Libbie—I had my drummer boys working on their instruments, their fathers working on entrenchments, Miss Saint-Jean’s company (including the farm women, though they would not be part of the actual performance) working on their act (with the younger girls as an audience); and all seemed right with the world. All I needed now was a scout like Billy Jack to keep an eye on the enemy. That was obvious enough. What was less obvious was where my own path of duty lay: Should I scout with Sergeant Bill Crow or should I join Miss Saint-Jean in supervising the rehearsals? Though I normally take only my own counsel on such matters, I found myself so torn about this decision that I saddled Marshal Ney, road across the trench into the dangerous near wilderness, and consulted the good marshal, for I have always trusted the instincts of dogs and horses. Yet Marshal Ney gave me little guidance—dutifully cocking his head and listening patiently, but offering no assent—via a flicked tail, a rotated ear, or an exultant whinny—to one option or another.

  I was sighing and nearing despair and drifting too close to enemy lines when Sergeant Bill Crow rode to my side. I revealed my dilemma to him, and in his sacerdotal way he said, “The show is women’s work; scouting is a warrior’s work; you are a warrior. Billy Jack and you should scout the enemy.”

  In saying this, the sergeant revealed his savage heritage, because the theatre is, of course, manifestly not—exclusively or even primarily—the realm of women. Still, I had to concede that your Autie was put on this Earth to be a soldier, and few things are more exciting for a soldier than scouting enemy positions. I had the perfect opportunity, even responsibility, to do that now, or not quite now, as I looked up and realized that if I rode any farther from our lines, I might soon lack a scalp, a head, and other important parts, so we rode back to the farmyard.

  Unsaddling Marshal Ney, I asked, “All right, Sergeant. When do we go again?”

  “Tonight. Scouts never wait for anything but darkness.”

  This time we did not disguise ourselves as Indians. Billy Jack, of course, needed no Indian disguise anyway; and he sourly dismissed my former Indian costume as pointless. He told me instead to dress in dark clothes and wear a black hat, and truth be told, I was ready for a new reconnaissance role.

  We moved out on foot. The moon was obscured by clouds, which made our progress a mite easier, as we scrambled like wary lizards from our trench into the underbrush. The yellow fields of tall grass ahead of us were cut by narrow channels, natural trails, and through these we advanced. We were a hundred yards from the trench when I heard the first, eerie, Indian, night-owl calls. Already flat on the ground, I pressed myself flatter. I caught Billy Jack’s eye, which betrayed nothing. He didn’t move and neither did I. I had a knife tucked in a sheath inside my boot. I pulled it out, even though the blade might reflect the moonlight. I reckoned I might not have time to reach for it if an Indian sprang from the tall grass.

  Ears are more useful than eyes in the darkness, and my ears tingled to catch any audible hint of movement. I kept my eyes on Billy Jack, and I’m glad I did because he cupped his hands around his face and hooted—it would have scared the devil out of me if I hadn’t known it was him. Even so I had to wonder what he was up to. He motioned for me to crawl ahead, and I did, boldly, assuming that whatever he had said in owl talk provided us with some sort of protection. There were hooted replies, and Billy Jack hooted again. I paused and looked over my shoulder, trying to find Billy Jack in the tall grass. Then I nearly leapt off the ground, stifling a curse, as something smashed down my hand. My head shot round and I half expected to see a bear towering over me. Instead, I saw a moccasined foot and a tree-stump leg. A rifle barrel jabbed my face; behind the rifle stood a war-painted Indian. Though I daren’t look back, I felt a hand clasp my boot, then my belt, and finally my shoulder. I heard Billy Jack at my ear: “Crow.”

  “What do you mean? Like a rooster?”

  “No, we’re all Crow—except for you, Boyanama Sioux.”

  The rifle tilted away from me.

  “Sergeant, what the blue blazes is going on?”

  “You need cavalry. No cavalry available, so I bring Crow. These are all Crow.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that. How many are there?”

  “Fifteen—they left their horses behind; necessary to sneak through Larsen’s patrols. Tonight we take mounts from Larsen. He has horses—a barn with saddles too. We can outfit cavalry.”

  “Sergeant, you are one exceptional Indian.”

  “The cannon was one plan; Crow reinforcements another; did not want to reveal either until I knew they were real, not just ideas.”

  “Well,” I said, and nodded at the Crow who had flattened my hand, “he seems real enough.”

  “His name is Sonny Sioux-Killer.”

  “Well, then, our sort of man.”

  “Yes, let us go. They have already swept the area ahead. The Sioux have no sentries. They are all at the Trading Post with Larsen: big conference. While they are distracted with talk, we’ll take the horses.”

  “Well done, Sergeant. Let’s go.”

  With the Crow scouts leading the way, we advanced through the scrubland like panthers on the prowl. Soon we saw the lamps glowing through the Trading Post windows, the outline of the corral fence off to the west, the horses moseying around its confines—lonely, I thought, and in need of riders—and a large barn limned behind.

  “Horses enough for all,” said Billy Jack.

  “Let’s go get ’em.”

  I was astonished that Larsen had no guards posted. I suppose having the town under his thumb had made him careless, and he discounted our ability to take the offensive. That proved he didn’t know with whom he was dealing.

  Several Crows sprinted up to the corral. We could hear voices in the Trading Post—it sounded like an argument—but no footfall of pacing sentries, no creaking leather of tired guards stretching and yawning in the darkness. The Crows began cutting out our mounts, stroking the horses’ noses to keep them calm.

  “Pick me out a good one,” I said to Billy Jack. “I’ll cover you.”

  Winchester ready, I kept a bead on the Trading Post. I strained to make out the loud, rough, raucous voices, but they talked over each other and there were too many of them. The one definite sound, like a bell in the night, was the clinking of whiskey bottles, heating the conversation. Larsen’s gunmen were blowing off steam, he probably wasn’t there, and the Indians had abandoned their patrols for firewater. There would be hell to pay when Larsen found out what had happened.

  Reins were placed in my hand. “General, we go.” Taking an Indian pony for himself, Billy Jack gave me a sleek black gelding. I looked at the fine, black, leather saddle. Stamped on it in gold were the initials “SL.” Poetic justice, I thought. I shoved my boot in the stirrup and swung aboard. Seeing my Indian platoon all mounted, I raised my arm and drew it level with the horizon, pointing our way to Bloody Gulch. It won’t surprise you, Libbie, that I got more pleasure from this raid on Larsen’s corral than I did from rescuing the hostages. I was thrilled to have Larsen’s horse—or at least of one of his saddles—and elated at the addition of Crow Cavalry. I guess when it comes down to it, I prefer horses to people—except for you, dearest one. And I guess when it comes down to it, I’d rather be a cavalryman, or a Crow scout, than an emancipator.

  I decided to name my new horse Edward, after the Black Prince. He leapt over our trench, wound expertly through Beauregard’s defensive line of stakes and strung wire, and I patted his neck in congratulation. He seemed a fine beast. “Well done, good and faithful servant,” I told him. I expected he would get on well with Marshal Ney.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In Which Siege Warfare Begins–and Ends

  The next day the siege of Bloody Gulch began in earnest.

  The weather was warm, and the children
were hoop-rolling outside the saloon and playing on the parade ground in front of the hotel. I was with Beauregard in the parlor, rehashing the previous night’s adventure—when I heard a mother’s scream.

  Outside, arrows smacked into the parade ground like hail; children fled (with less panic than you might expect); and mothers grabbed little hands and ran to the saloon and safety. Flaming arrows targeted the hotel. One thudded into the post next to me. I yanked it out, stamped on it, and pounded the few stray embers in the post with my buckskinned elbow.

  “Beauregard!” I shouted, though he was standing just a few paces away. “Get the acrobats on the roof with towels, rugs, buckets of water, anything to beat down the flames. Get Hercules to help.”

  Billy Jack appeared just as I needed him. “Sergeant, have your men mount up; let’s teach these Sioux a lesson.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Beauregard lingered. “Begging the Yankee General’s pardon, but if there’s cavalry work to be done . . .”

  “Major, I gave you an order—the hotel’s on fire.”

  “I’m better with a horse and a gun than I am with a fire brigade.”

  “All right, but get the Chinamen moving; put Ives in charge; then saddle a horse and join me—there’s not a moment to lose.”

  His drawl might be slow, but in action Beauregard is like a tiger. Five minutes after I gave the order, I was astride Marshal Ney, Beauregard was mounted beside me, and a line of Crow cavalrymen was formed behind us. We were armed with Winchester repeating rifles.

  “All right, boys! You don’t need a speech from me, just an order! Let’s go get ’em! Crows—charge!” Our horses leapt to the fray, hooves pounding for the trench, the flaming arrows arcing over us like misaimed artillery shells. The Crows whooped and hooted as our horses cleared the ditch and we saw the enemy arrayed in the tall grass a few dozen yards ahead of us.