Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

“Even so, sir, he had no right to interfere with our freedom, which must include the freedom to go our own way.”

  “The war is over, Major.”

  “So they say, sir.”

  “Still,” said Isabel, “the South did have a worthy cause, or at least a refined, noble way of life, don’t you think so, Marshal?”

  “Yes, I suppose it had its points,” I said, trying to tamp down her enthusiasm; to Beauregard I added, prosaically, “Watch out for those rocks, Major.”

  “Oh, I mean, it was all so wonderful, back in the day, wasn’t it—the dresses, the parties, the beaux?”

  “I will confess, Miss Isabel,” said Beauregard, “it was quite a pleasant manner of life, for those who could enjoy it.”

  “And it’s all so sad now,” she added sympathetically.

  “Well, yes, it is, Miss Isabel,” Beauregard conceded, “but as the poet said, ‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.’ ”

  “What a wonderful sentiment—and yet, tragic, isn’t it? Is it from the Bible?”

  “No, ma’am, Tennyson, an English poet.”

  “And you, Marshal, you were a Union General, weren’t you? You fought against all that?”

  “Not against that, ma’am, but for the Union.”

  “And you, Major Gillette, are you still against the Union?” she asked, all innocent.

  “No, ma’am; I follow the noble example of the late Robert E. Lee; we must strive dutifully to make the best of things, and let the dead bury their dead.”

  “And you, Marshal? Are you still against the South?”

  “I never was against the South, ma’am; I was ordered to prevent their secession; and after the war I kept the peace. But I assure you, ma’am, as a Democrat, I believed then, and believe now, that the South should be treated generously, decently, leniently. I knew too many good Southern men—and charming Southern ladies—to ever dislike Southerners as a class, but for me, ma’am, the choice was simple: I took a vow at West Point to defend the Union; I could not fight against it.”

  “And I, Miss Isabel,” said Beauregard, “took a vow to defend my fellow Virginians; I could not fight against them.”

  “I’m so glad we’re all united now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, taking her hand, “all united now.”

  But Beauregard sensed an advantage: “And your people, Miss Isabel, surely they were Southerners? I cannot imagine that such charm could have developed north of the Mason-Dixon line.”

  She smiled bashfully—blast him!—and said, “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. My parents were Tennesseans.”

  “And you, ma’am?”

  “I was born in New Mexico.”

  “Well, that’s South sure enough.”

  “My father didn’t fight in the war. It was too far away, at least for the most part, and he had a family to support. He ran sheep for a while; then a dry goods store; he kept changing jobs, and we kept moving north, until we got here.”

  “No shame in that, ma’am. One thing I learned from the war—a man’s got to look after his own.”

  I knew what “own” Beauregard was looking after, and I aimed for a tactical distraction. “Look out there, Major—you’ll drive us into a ditch!”

  “I’ve never wrecked a wagon yet, sir.”

  “Now about this treasure,” I said, subtly changing the subject, “how do you know it actually exists? These hills are full of rumors of gold and silver waiting for any intrepid miner.”

  “Well, Yankee General, sir, we’ll find out soon enough. Say a prayer I’m right—and that it’s at the church.”

  We entered the church not through the front door, which was boarded up, but via a broken window. Beauregard threw open the sash and clambered in. I followed, carefully, and then offered my assistance to Miss Johnson. Bad Boy followed, jumping like a hunter, and I wondered if he might have a career with Miss Saint-Jean’s Chinese acrobats.

  It was a small church, but it had been vandalized in a big way. The pews were broken, dislodged, or flipped and sitting at awkward angles. Prayer books, hymnals, and bibles were torn and tattered, littering the floor. The altar was collapsed in the middle as if it had been punished by an ax. Visigoths in their prime could not have done any worse.

  Beauregard cleared a spot with his boot and bade us look down. There was stone flooring that served as a border separating the elevated part of the church, where the altar was, from the wood floor beneath the pews. Each large stone square of this border had something carved into it. At first, I assumed each was a scene from the Bible. Beauregard’s toe tapped on the inscription on one of the squares. It read: Deo Vindice.

  “That mean anything to you, Yankee General, sir?”

  “Well, Major, I assume it is the signature of the Italian who carved these stones.”

  “That’s the motto of the Confederacy, sir. It means, roughly speaking, ‘With God as Our Defender.’ ”

  “We’re not back to that again, are we, Major? I assume it means something different here.”

  “Don’t be too sure, Yankee General, sir. I reckon that beneath that stone is a crypt.”

  “Well, that sounds quite eerie, but I thought our objective was buried treasure, not buried bones.”

  “I think, sir, that the crypt hides no human remains, but the remains of the Confederate gold.”

  “This is Montana, Major, not Richmond; and the war ended a dozen years ago.”

  “Past and present come together at this spot, Yankee General, sir. Beneath this stone is Delingpole’s treasure.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “An educated guess, sir, based on that bit of poetry I showed you.”

  “I see.”

  “And, Yankee General, sir, there’s a lot more to the story than that.”

  “So I surmise, Major. I trust you will explain.”

  “Happy to, sir, but maybe not now; now, I reckon, we need to see if I’m right.”

  He knelt down and brushed away dust and debris to reveal a few more details to the inscription. The words Deo Vindice were topped and underscored by wreaths. On each side were what looked like engraved crooks, like those used by the shepherds in Bethlehem. But as his fingers worked on these crooks like a sculptor molding immovable clay, violá, up they popped one after the other. He removed them from the stone and then used them as hooks on the wreaths, which folded upright, forming metal straps though which he could slip the crooks. He pulled, and the stone slowly separated itself from the floor.

  “Major, let me help you.”

  Each of us, crook in hand, pulled—not violently; we didn’t want to break the metal straps—but with firm, steady, manly pressure, until the stone came completely free, rising above a dusty shower of gravel and mortar. We carefully placed the stone to one side and peered into the dark vacancy.

  “We’ll need a torch,” he said.

  “What sort of treasure are we looking for, Major? What did you mean by ‘Confederate gold’?”

  “Just that, sir; at war’s end, Cousin Delingpole had a secret mission. The Confederate Treasury Secretary, George Trenholm, told him to gather the Confederacy’s gold—what had been saved from the mints at Charlotte, Dahlonega, and New Orleans—and spirit it somewhere safe; somewhere out West; somewhere the Confederacy might rally. Well, Cousin Delingpole did his part; he evaded every Yankee patrol. But there was no rally; there was no new Confederacy. There was only, in the end, a man without a country and gold without a cause. That’s how Cousin Delingpole became the benevolent lord of Bloody Gulch.”

  “Am I to surmise, Major, that you were part of the mission?”

  “Well, sir, I was his cousin—I knew about it. But the Confederate States of America had other work for me. Now about that torch, sir . . .”

  There was no shortage of wood about, but it proved unnecessary. Amazingly, the villains had left the church’s kerosene lamps undisturbed—so we e
ach took one. I lit them from the box of matches I had kept during the siege (with which I might have had to set aflame our whiskey trench), and we each peered down into the darkness.

  “Bad Boy,” I called. “Dropin downinzie, into the voidinzie, und let us knowinzie vether das ist ein safen holenzie.”

  He barked his version of “Ja” and dived into the dark. It was a short drop. He disappeared into the darkness, made a quick reconnaissance, and then returned into view wagging his tail.

  “All right, Marshal. Shall I go first?”

  “That would be my preference, Major,” I said, taking Isabel’s hand. “This being a church, we will pray for you; and if you don’t return, we will guarantee you a Christian burial.”

  “I’m much obliged.”

  I took his lamp and he jumped into the darkness.

  “Well, that part was easy,” he said. “I’d reckon it’s a ten-foot drop, sir.” His hand reached up and I reached down, transferring custody of the lamp.

  Our line of sight extended farther now, as Beauregard roamed about the crypt. “Come on down, Yankee General, sir. Isabel can come too. It looks safe enough.”

  I jumped first. After I landed, I had Isabel hand me the lamps and I set them on the ground. “Jump, my dear, and I’ll catch you.” I did—and then I stood there, as a sailor might with his mermaid, admiring her. Isabel represented all that was fair and good in Bloody Gulch; all of our adventures were, in the end, for her and the likes of her, I thought, so that such kind and handsome people—golden-haired, bronze-skinned, with shining blue eyes radiating our nation’s future—could live in peace and harmony and prosperity.

  “You can put me down, Marshal.”

  “I think I’d better not; it’s a dirt floor, my dear, and quite dusty—and I could hold you for a very long time . . .”

  “Put me down, Marshal.”

  “Very well, as you wish.”

  I placed her on her feet. Bad Boy growled.

  “Settle down, boy. There’s nothing to fear.” I turned to Isabel and said, “A crazy, murderous, abusive miner kept him in the dark; he doesn’t like it.”

  “He’s not the only one,” she said.

  Bad Boy showed his teeth, and his growl became a bark.

  “Shh now boy; you’re safe here. You’re with me.”

  “Do you think he sees something?” asked Isabel.

  “There’s nothing to see—except for that pile of luggage over there and those pickaxes and shovels, and that hammer and nails and cord wood. This hole is as deserted as . . . well, a crypt.”

  Bad Boy barked furiously, and then a voice came from above.

  “Well, well, well, aren’t you the happy couple?”

  “Rachel?”

  There she was, radiant in her own raven-haired way, but with an unmistakable six-shooter in her hand. “Yes, General; I see you’ve found the treasure.”

  “Well, not quite. Beauregard assumes it’s down here, but . . .”

  “I’m willing to assume he’s right. Gus, ride off to Mr. Larsen. Tell him we’ve got it—and the general. We’ve got everything.”

  “Rachel, what are you talking about?”

  “I’ve got some boys up here to help me. And you’ve helped me quite a lot too, General. Seth had you figured pretty well. He knew you weren’t out here just to fight Indians. He knew what you were really after. What we all are.”

  “You mean to tell me you’re in league with Seth Larsen?”

  “Have been from the beginning; he knew you would be foolhardy enough to attack; he knew the Sioux would massacre your men; he knew, if I saved you, you would lead him to the treasure.”

  “But . . .”

  “Don’t try to figure it all out, Marshal. When you’re an Indian captive and you see your chance with a man like Seth, you take it. The Indians run a hard school, and they taught me the violent bear it away. All right, boys, let’s close ’em in until Seth gets here. Sweet dreams, General; at least I know I’m leaving you in good company.”

  Two burly cowpunchers lowered the stone back into place and we were trapped like rabbits in a stone-blocked rabbit hole—with hungry, squirrel-gun-toting jaspers sitting on top. At least we had our lamps.

  “Well, sir,” said Major Gillette, “it appears an unexpected card has been played against us.”

  “Yes, Major—it’s as much a surprise to me as it is to you. I rescued that woman; and after all we’ve been through—I just can’t believe she’s working for Larsen.”

  “Well, sir . . .” he started, consolingly, but my anger was unstoppable.

  “And I can’t believe her gall in assuming my attack was foolhardy. Had I been supported, Major, as I should have been, by Benteen and Reno, we would have had quite a different outcome; but Reno, I tell you frankly, is incompetent, and Benteen, for whatever reason, has never warmed to me; in fact, he holds an unprofessional hatred towards me—jealousy, no doubt. Their duty, however, whatever their feelings, whatever their shortcomings, was clear: to support me in the attack. And I would like to know why, by heaven, they didn’t. Their failure to support me turned a gallant charge into a trap—a trap beyond the agency of any Indian.”

  “You must forgive me, sir, but I am not familiar with this engagement, and Indians as we know are mighty clever—take Sergeant Billy Jack, for instance. Are we talking about a battle you fought out West?”

  “Never mind that, but I have been betrayed, Major—and not just by Rachel.”

  “Well, sir, I hope you will not consider my next confession a betrayal.”

  “So, there’s still more, is there?”

  “Yes, sir, quite a bit more actually. I blush to concede that I’ve been less than forthright.”

  “Yes, Major, that has become apparent.”

  “I’m not entirely what I appear to be, Yankee General, sir. Oh, everything I’ve told you is true enough—but there’s more to it than that.”

  “You’re working for Larsen too.”

  “Actually, sir, I’m working for your own General Grant.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Well, you see, sir, old Colonel Mosby has become right friendly with the General—that is—President Grant, they both bein’ Republicans and all now; and President Grant is well aware that many of these Indian agents might not be the most honorable of men, Larsen in particular. He wanted his own agent to investigate things. He asked Colonel Mosby, who recommended me, and here I am, sir, stuck with you in a cellar in Bloody Gulch, Montana.”

  This was such a momentous confession that it took me a while to fully comprehend it, but my mind clasped onto the essential fact: “Beauregard, you mean to say you are a Republican?”

  “As I say, sir, a man has to look after his own.”

  “But I can scarcely believe it—a committed rebel like you.”

  “Still, a rebel, sir; maybe even more so than before.”

  “I’m at a loss, Major, I’m at a loss.”

  “Maybe not, sir. You see those chests in that corner. I wouldn’t be a mite surprised if they’re full of gold.”

  “But, if you’re a federal agent, then the federal government means to retrieve it, yes?”

  “Well, sir, not exactly. You see, my remit is to investigate Larsen and the murder of Cousin Delingpole; his secret mission is still a secret to the Yankee government.”

  If his earlier confession had stunned me, this one cofounded me further—for where now lay my duty; what, at this dramatic moment, was the proper course of action? On the one hand, as a United States cavalry officer, I assumed that, entrusted with this information, I should report it to my superiors, perhaps directly to Phil Sheridan. On the other hand, I was, officially, dead and in no position to report to anyone. Beauregard acting as a federal agent might have a duty to report the matter, but then again, what was the legal status of this gold, if it actually existed within those chests that Beauregard was illuminating with his lamp? Was it the property of the federal government? Or was it the property of the Engl
ishman Delongpile, the Confederate officer who had acquired it and established this town with it? If the latter, was it then by rights Beauregard’s on the basis of kinship and discovery? And if there was treasure within those chests, how were we to defend it from Larsen? But first we had to discover whether the treasure actually existed.

  So, I put the question to Beauregard, “Major, are you going to open those chests, or are we just going to assume what’s inside them?”

  We examined the chests. There were six of them stowed like luggage in a railway station. One was conveniently without a padlock. Beauregard put his hand on it and said, “May I have the honor, sir?”

  “Yes, Major, go ahead.”

  He flipped the chest open. I could not see its contents immediately because his body blocked my view, but when he turned around, he held up a gold coin.

  “That’s it?” I said. “That’s the Delungpole treasure? A single coin?”

  “No, sir, there’s a few more where that came from, just enough to fill my pockets, which with your permission, I’ll do, sir, in the interest of hiding the evidence. These other chests are heavy and have stout locks; their secrets will keep for a while.” He handed me the coin. “But take a look at that, sir. Miss Isabel, you might recognize it.”

  “Why yes,” she said as I held it up for her inspection, “these were the coins he used to pay for everything. The townsfolk accepted them—and so did Larsen because they were gold.”

  “So, let me see if I understand this, Major. This is formerly Confederate gold, now the legal currency of a Montana town, stamped with the image of an Englishman?”

  “I reckon so, sir. I reckon that this was originally Confederate gold and that cousin Delingpole restamped the coins to hide their origin. The Confederacy never had any proper dies—so they might have looked like any other federal coin except for the mint marks. But he was mechanical like that; liked making things; so, making a die wouldn’t have been beyond him. If I had to guess, all these chests will be the same. And if I had to guess, he probably had some sort of minting machine up at his estate, and destroyed it, not wanting to leave any evidence after he minted these coins.”

  “So, why the mine and the foundry?”