Red Cloud's Revenge

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Yessir,” Ten Eyck answered, uncomfortable, and thirsty for more of the whiskey that helped dull the pain.

  Wessells finally settled in his chair and looked up at Ten Eyck sadly.

  “I’ve got more problems than having to cut the rations for March, Ten Eyck.”

  “There’s enough grumbling as it is.”

  “And scurvy to go around,” Wessells replied, waving a hand for the captain’s silence. “I know. I know. Few men not beginning to suffer. Roll call every morning finds more cases at the hospital. But,” he sighed before continuing, “I take heart that our two sergeants made it to Smith and back again.”

  “That cheered the garrison, sir—to learn that Smith is faring as well as they are.”

  Wessells nodded. “We’re cut off even more than they, Ten Eyck.”

  “Yes, sir.” And for the first time, Ten Eyck sensed a cloud cross Wessells’s face. It had been there all along, from the moment he had marched into this post commander’s office and watched the others scurry out, leaving him alone with Wessells as if on some unspoken cue. But, Tenedore Ten Eyck had been too concerned with his own physical pain to notice until now. Wallowing too much in his own emotional prison to recognize what was coming.

  Wessells wiped a hand across his mouth, swallowing hard. As if this were some bitter medicine he himself were forced to take.

  “Captain, I’m relieving you of command of Company F.”

  Ten Eyck sensed his throat constrict. Too long dry now. His tongue longed for the familiar sting of Kinney’s whiskey. “Sir?” he struggled with the one word.

  Wessells swept past him, unable to look Ten Eyck in the eye. “More grumbling from the men.”

  “My … my men, sir?”

  “Yes, dammit,” he answered quietly. “And other officers as well.”

  “I see.”

  “You’ll have another chance with A company.”

  “Another … another chance, Colonel.”

  “Your last here, Ten Eyck,” Wessells said dryly, turning from the oily window that looked out onto the snowy, gloomy parade.

  It was just the way Ten Eyck felt, even though his eyes were locked straight ahead on a knothole in the rough-hewn plank of Colonel Wessells’s office wall.

  “I had hopes when I moved you from H Company to F … that the grumbling would eventually quiet itself.”

  “My cowardice?” Ten Eyck’s hands balled into fists involuntarily.

  Wessells nodded, though the captain could not see. “That, and the drinking. For your sake, Captain, I hope you make this assignment stick.”

  Tenedore hungered for the red whiskey more than ever. His throat gone dry, words hard as clods to dredge up. And, more than ever, he wanted to drink himself to forgetfulness with the Irishman. But, Donegan was far gone from this place of bitter memories, memories daily reminding Tenedore Ten Eyck of that bloody day in December as he watched the warriors reluctantly pull back from the mutilated bodies down the ridge. Taunting the soldiers to come on, luring and profane like some red-mouthed camp whore following his regiment from battleground to battleground during the war. Seductive, and deadly as well.

  Donegan alone knew the loneliness and despair Tenedore felt.

  Ten Eyck swallowed. Admitting he was alone here now. As alone as was Donegan at Fort C.F. Smith.

  “I’ll make this command stick, Colonel,” Tenedore finally answered. He saluted the wall, turned and strode toward the door.

  The cold slapped him like a brutal hand as the door slammed behind him. The gray of the parade reminded him of how his insides felt. Hollow, ringing with pain. And loneliness.

  Chapter 8

  “You’re Cap’n Sam Marr?”

  The gray-headed civilian turned at the sound of the young soldier’s voice.

  “I am.” Marr’s eyes narrowed in the bright reflection off the snow. “What is it, son?”

  “I was told by Colonel Wessells to find you.”

  “What he want with me?” Marr asked, turning back to soaping the harness in his lap. “I’m busy enough these days, keeping harness repaired for the woodcutters, Private. Wessells can see me when I’m not so—”

  “Wanted me to give you this, sir.”

  “Sir, is it?” Sam looked over his shoulder again, regarding the young soldier. He stared at the envelope the young man held between them. “For me?”

  “Colonel said you could see it got delivered, Cap’n Marr.”

  Sam studied the much-handled, wrinkled envelope, a tight scrawl neatly centered on its face. “He did, did he?”

  “Yessir,” the soldier answered. “I’ll be going now, sir.”

  Marr looked up suddenly. “Son?” The soldier stopped in his tracks. “Didn’t catch your name.”

  “Ketcham, sir. Private Henry.”

  “Good making your acquaintance, Private,” Sam said with a smile. “Where you hail from?”

  “Southern Illinois, Cap’n.”

  “Thought I heard that flavor in your voice. I’m Missouri, through and through.”

  The young soldier grinned. “Yessir.”

  “Tell you what, Private Ketcham—you a drinking man?”

  “At times, sir.”

  “Good, son. I’ll buy you a drink this evening … up to Kinney’s place. Much as I hate the man, he’s the only one with whiskey in these parts.”

  “Tonight it is, Cap’n.”

  “See you there, Private,” Marr replied as Ketcham turned away. Sam bent over the envelope again.

  No mistake about it, the address read:

  Seamus Donegan

  Fort Laramy

  U.S. Army Fort

  America

  He looked up, finding Ketcham moving off at a brisk clip. “Private!”

  Ketcham turned. “Cap’n?”

  “How’d this come in?” Marr hollered.

  “Supply train come in this morning, Cap’n. Had a slew of mail on it.”

  “Supply train?”

  “From Laramie, sir. And long overdue.”

  “Food come in the wagons?”

  “Yessir.”

  “’Bout damned time, Private. Nearly every man down with scurvy. I ain’t seen it this bad since the war. What day is it, son.”

  “The seventeenth, as I remember.”

  “February?”

  “No!” Ketcham laughed. “March, Cap’n.”

  “Thankee, son.” Marr waved Ketcham off once more and gazed down at the wrinkled envelope, for the first time noticing the soiled and greasy smear that formed the long-ago postmark inked across the top of the folded parchment.

  Beware the Ides of March, Sam Marr, he thought to himself. And what the Ides of March bring on their heels.

  Sam turned the envelope into the light so he could read the inking better.

  Town Callan

  County Kilkenny

  Ireland

  “Lord, if that don’t beat all.” He slapped the envelope across his thigh. “Coming all the way across the ocean, to rest now in the hand of Sam Marr. If that don’t beat all.”

  “What don’t beat all?”

  Marr turned, finding Finn Burnett, another civilian teamster striding up, his shoulders encased with harness.

  “Letter for Seamus.”

  “Donegan, eh?”

  Marr nodded. “All the way from Ireland.”

  “Where my mother and father both come from,” Burnett replied. “What’s it say?”

  “I ain’t read Seamus’s mail, Finn.”

  Burnett grinned, then winked. “Not yet anyway. He’s been run off, all the way up to Fort Smith. Won’t hurt none you reading that letter come all the way from the green isle, will it?”

  Marr shook his head. “Wouldn’t think of it, Burnett.” For the first time he noticed the harness weighing down Finn’s shoulder. “Where you heading with all that?”

  “Leighton’s heading south with a train of wagons in two days,” Burnett began, explaining about their civilian employer who had contracte
d with the army for freighting supplies, expecting to cut hay for Fort C.F. Smith come cutting season. “At Laramie he’ll turn east to North Platte, Nebraska. Bring back supplies for Smith up north … once we can get through come spring, and start cutting grass.”

  “You going along?”

  “Better’n hanging ’round here, staring at ugly mugs like yours, Cap’n Marr.”

  Marr chuckled, staring back at the letter. “I suppose it is.”

  “Besides, I’ll get to look at a prettier face than yours on that long ride.”

  “Oh?” Marr’s interest was piqued.

  “The widow,” Burnett replied. “Leighton tells me she’s heading back east to her husband’s people in Nebraska.”

  Marr jerked, startled. “The widow Wheatley?”

  Burnett nodded. “That’s right.”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose it gets hard on a woman out here … left alone. What with two boys and no man to help her. Young as she is.”

  “And quite the looker too,” Burnett said, grinning. He dropped the harness in a pile near the sawbucks where the men soaped the leather to keep it supple. “I’ll be plenty pleased to ride east with that one.”

  Marr slapped the envelope across the palm of his hand. “I’ll be back in a bit, Finn.”

  “Be back?” Burnett called out as the old man trotted up the snowy slope toward the quartermaster’s stockade.

  “Leave me my share, Burnett!” Marr shouted over his shoulder, waving the envelope in the air.

  “Damn right I will, Cap’n!” Burnett hollered back. “Damn right you’ll find your share waiting for you.”

  * * *

  “Best you wait for your own people, Mrs. Wheatley.”

  Jennie looked into the old man’s eyes once more, seeing them plead with her as much as did his voice. She wrung her hands in her soiled apron, glancing once at the boys playing on the bed. “But … what if my brother doesn’t come?”

  “You yourself told me you wrote your folks back in Ohio to come fetch you.”

  Jennie nodded. “If only my letter gets there.” She watched Marr chuckle merrily.

  “Get there, Jennie? Why, lookee here!” Marr pulled a greasy envelope from inside his shirt. “This got here all the way from Ireland.”

  “Ireland?” she asked, eyes widening. “Someone write you from Ireland?”

  “Goodness no, child. It’s for Seamus.”

  “Seamus?” she whispered, as if once more sensing the fragrance of him. His presence pungent with the strong smell of working animals and whiskey, wood smoke, and gun-oil. And sensed a tightening across her loins for him. Aching for his return.

  “From the town his folks call home.”

  “His … his folks?” she asked, taking the envelope into her slim hands, creased with grease and dirt, callused with hard work.

  Marr nodded. “If you won’t stay to wait on your own family come from Ohio … stay for Seamus.”

  “He’s not here,” she whispered, her eyes never straying from the envelope, holding it like she would a piece of him.

  “He will be soon as he can, Jennie. You told me he promised you.”

  Jennie caressed the stiff, wrinkled paper. “He promised.”

  “You’ll stay till Seamus comes back?”

  She looked up at the merry wrinkles creasing his eyes. There was a softness there wrought by the decades of Sam Marr’s life. “That … or my kin comes from Ohio to fetch me. Whichever happens first.”

  “Pray it be Seamus Donegan, Jennie Wheatley.”

  It seemed the old man hung suspended, waiting for an answer from her. “Yes, Sam. Pray Seamus Donegan comes for me first.” She gazed down at the envelope once more. Something chill ran through her. Certain it was the letter enclosed within her fingers. “What news is this?”

  “I ain’t read Seamus’s mail.”

  “Read it.”

  “I can’t, Jennie.”

  “You must.”

  Sam Marr shook his head stubbornly. “It’s private. Come from the town where he was born. His soil, Jennie. Family matters—”

  “Read it to me, Sam,” Jennie interrupted, pleading, suddenly afraid. No longer curious. More so scared of the letter.

  She stared hard into his eyes until something behind them weakened, and smiled softly. “All right, Jennie. I’ll read it … we’ll read it, together.”

  She began to tear at the envelope.

  “Carefully, child. Carefully.”

  “Here, Sam. You open it for me.”

  One old, gnarled finger slipped beneath the flaps, sealed with wax and long-ago dried glue. Inside lay a single folded page. Gently spreading the sheet, they could see the ink on the paper was brighter than that on the envelope. Not smudged and dulled with many hands and countless miles.

  “It’s from Seamus’s mother,” Jennie whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. She turned away, sinking to a crude stool beside the washtub where the water grew tepid. Knowing as only a mother could what tidings a letter from the woman in Ireland could foreshadow. “Tell me the news, Sam. Tell me.”

  Marr gulped. His old eyes quickly scanning Katie Donegan’s tight scrawl. When he had reached the bottom of the page, his eyes found Jennie Wheatley’s eyes anxiously searching his for some explanation.

  “Just tell me, Sam.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Jennie!” Marr whispered low, like a rush of hard water bouncing off the rocks of the Big Piney. “Seamus ain’t gonna believe this!”

  * * *

  His big hand shook as he read the few words Sam Marr had scrawled in explanation of the letter from Ireland being opened. It didn’t matter now. Not that much. More important the old man’s explanation of reading it to Jennie Wheatley. Why she had wanted Marr to read it to her.

  Seamus stuffed Marr’s letter in his pocket, only then turning from Capt. Nathaniel C. Kinney’s door, where the captain’s adjutant passed out mail just arrived from Fort Phil Kearny this twenty-sixth day of March. He would find a place in the sun to read his mother’s letter. More than three years now since last he had written her. During the war. That summer of Gettysburg.

  The smells of that battlefield as fresh in his nostrils now as they were that steamy July. Hot gun oil and fresh blood. The stench of men’s bowels and their gore baking beneath a relentless sun. Before the rain came that third day, cleansing the rocks and grass and hillsides of the bloody epitaph.

  Seamus Donegan settled nervously to his haunches against the north wall, licked his lips, wishing he had a drink before him right now. And read his mother’s tight hand.

  My dearest Seamus,

  It has been so long since I have heard from you. Years now. I can only trust to God himself that my words will find you. He alone knows my anguish of sending you on that fool’s errand.

  I ask your forgiveness. Your mother thought it best to send you to America. A new land. Better to find your uncles there than die with the rest here in the land of your birth. Sweet Eire.

  Do not think harsh of me that I wait until now to reply to your last letter. It caused me so much hurt to read your words, explaining to me my brothers were not what they had told me they were. Not finding them in Boston. Learning only they had joined the army as you were forced to do. Fighting in a foreign war, against a foreign enemy. Taking the lives of other men—against the commandments of God himself.

  I trusted my brothers when I sent you to that foreign soil, Seamus. You must believe that I would not release you from my bosom if I had known they would prove unfaithful. They promised such riches. A bright future for you in America. Where there is none here in the land of your birth. The young ones grow old so quickly here. And the old ones die, haunted.

  Do not harbor harsh thoughts of your mother, Seamus Donegan. She meant well. Always meant well for you. Even above your brothers and sisters. She wanted the best for you, Seamus. It pains me to write this, but you must know beside this page lies a letter from your uncle Liam. No word at all from Ian. But Liam has
written. From California, in America.

  He explains that he went west. Never was in the Union army at all. Says Ian talked of nothing else. But Liam headed west to the goldfields of California. He stayed there as long as he could. Wasn’t anywhere near Boston when his nephew came to America.

  Now, this old letter, wrote back in 1861, says he’s headed for a place called Colorado. To find gold in some place called Cripple Creek.

  Always hoping, that one. Liam. Not like Ian, my dark brother. Liam would chase a leprechaun to the ends of the earth to find his pot of gold, he would.

  Liam said his letter would come to me in a packet ship, round the horn of South America, by way of New York City. It came last week, Seamus. He said he would send word next when he was a rich man in Cripple Creek. Lord knows when that will be, the way Liam is.

  Seamus, your mother weeps for her brothers. She weeps for her son adrift in a new land. Find them both, Seamus Donegan. Find Liam and Ian both.

  If you do nothing else for your mother’s soul, so I can rest in peace when the Lord calls—find your uncles and bring them home where you all belong. Bring them home to the land of your birth, Seamus Donegan.

  I am ill and dying, Seamus. Bring them home.

  May the saints watch over and preserve your soul among the wicked and the heathen,

  Your Mother

  Chapter 9

  Marr had no time to get out of the man’s way.

  Ten Eyck rammed into him, spilling both of them onto the steps in front of Colonel Wessells’s office.

  Sam Marr sat sprawled in a puddle of icy water at the foot of the plank steps, staring at the captain. A grin appeared, then grew into a smile. “By damn, you are a sight, Ten Eyck.”

  Tenedore’s face finally cracked a reluctant smile. He wiped mud and slush from the front of his coat, smearing it all the more. “You’re no better yourself, Cap’n Marr.”

  “Why the billy-hell you come roaring outta that door for?” Marr asked, crabbing to his feet, his legs soaked with slush. “That’s Wessells’s office, ain’t it?”

  “It is,” Ten Eyck answered, rising as well. The smile was gone. “A man can only take so much.” His eyes glared at the door.

  Marr recognized well enough the fires of hatred behind Ten Eyck’s eyes. “C’mon, Tenedore. Lemme buy you a drink of Kinney’s whiskey.”