When All Hell Broke Loose

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Chapter 23

  Fort Laramie, 1852

  By the time the sun was up, the members of the expedition were mounted and ready to go. At the head of the group, alongside Preacher and Colonel Finlay Sutton, Jamie hipped around in the saddle and studied the men behind him.

  Roscoe Lomax was beside the young lieutenant, Thomas Curry, who was Sutton’s second in command. Behind them, riding two abreast, were forty-eight US Army dragoons. Then came Baron Adalwolf von Kuhner, Feldwebel Herman Becker, and a dozen Prussian mounted troops. Bringing up the rear were a couple of sergeants and a pair of corporals in charge of the eight pack animals and a dozen spare mounts.

  Stretched out that way along the edge of the parade ground, it was an impressive bunch. Seventy-one well-armed men setting out into the wilderness in search of . . . what?

  Jamie didn’t know. He didn’t hold out much hope of finding any of the original group alive, but he supposed it was possible one or two of them might still be prisoners of the Blackfeet led by Stone Bear.

  After the brawl in the sutler’s store the previous night, he wasn’t sure how smoothly things would go this morning, but other than some hard looks exchanged between the dragoons and the Prussians, nothing had happened. Lomax and Becker, especially, had traded glares, but other than that, the two men steered clear of each other.

  Jamie had had another talk with Lomax and warned him to be on his best behavior. The bullwhacker promised that he would try.

  Jamie faced forward again in the saddle and looked over at Sutton. “You ready to go, Colonel?”

  “I don’t see any point in waiting,” Sutton replied. “Before we get back, we may be in a race against the weather, so we need to use our time as efficiently as possible.”

  “In other words,” drawled Preacher, “we’re burnin’ daylight.”

  Jamie nodded in agreement, raised his arm, and waved his hand forward in a signal for the group to move out.

  They rode north, and after only a short time, they came to the North Platte River. At first glance, the river wasn’t a formidable obstacle. Jamie had heard it described as being “a mile wide and an inch deep.” That was an exaggeration, but except in times of rare flooding, the broad stream was shallow and flowed sluggishly as it twisted across the prairie.

  Fording it could be dangerous anyway, due to numerous bogs and stretches of quicksand among its many channels.

  Jamie said, “Preacher, that stallion of yours always seems to know where he’s going. Why don’t you take the lead?”

  “I was just thinkin’ the same thing myself,” the mountain man agreed. He moved out and let Horse have his head. Slowly, the rangy gray stallion began picking his way across the North Platte. Muddy brown water splashed and swirled around his hooves.

  Jamie followed him. Colonel Sutton turned in his saddle and called to Curry, “Keep an eye on us and ride where we ride, Lieutenant. Don’t allow the men to stray from that path.”

  “Yes, sir!” Curry turned and relayed the order to the dragoons, then started after Sutton.

  Jamie didn’t expect any trouble from the American soldiers. They would do as they were told. He didn’t know how much the Prussians could be counted on to do the same. Von Kuhner and Becker struck him as the sort to believe they knew better than their American guides and might strike off on their own, winding up in trouble.

  Von Kuhner barked orders in his native tongue, though, and the Prussian troops were just as careful as the American dragoons during the river crossing. Everybody forded the stream without any problems. Jamie and Preacher sat on horseback on a slight rise just north of the river and watched the last of the pack animals emerge from the shallow, muddy water.

  “Well, they done what the baron told ’em to do,” said Preacher. “Leastways, I reckon he told ’em to follow your orders. I don’t savvy none o’ that gruntin’.”

  “I don’t understand much of it, either,” Jamie said. “But they all made it across, and that’s what I was worried about.”

  Preacher laughed. “You know this here is probably the easiest part of the whole trip, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” said Jamie. “I reckon I do.”

  * * *

  For the first few days the expedition proceeded northward at a steady, ground-eating pace without encountering any trouble. Jamie didn’t expect that good luck to last, but he would take all he could get.

  It ended on the fifth day, which dawned with a cold, miserable rain falling. All the previous day, Jamie had watched the clouds drifting slowly toward them from the north. It wasn’t a blue norther—too early in the season for that—or the sort of toad-strangler that could cause flooding, but it didn’t take long for the steady rain to turn the ground into muddy gumbo that made the horses work twice as hard to get through it. With every step, the mud sucked stubbornly at their hooves.

  The men didn’t like being chilled and wet, either, and that caused tensions to run high. The two dragoons who served as cooks for the party managed to rig a cover from a piece of oilcloth that allowed them to build a small fire, but it was a constant struggle to keep the flames going while they tried to boil coffee, fry salt pork, and bake some biscuits.

  They managed to slap together a skimpy breakfast, but nobody was really satisfied. The midday meal was more of the same.

  While the two cooks were cleaning up, one of the Prussian soldiers walked up in a slicker, with rain sluicing off his pointed helmet, and said something in his language as he put his fists on his hips and sneered. The way he followed that by turning his head and spitting made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t being complimentary.

  One of the dragoons straightened from what he was doing and demanded, “What was that you said, you damn Dutchman?”

  The Prussian let out another spate of German, including the word schwein.

  The other dragoon scowled and said, “I think he’s sayin’ that the food we fixed ain’t fit for the hogs, Jessup.”

  The first dragoon planted his fists on his hips, stuck out his chest and his chin, and crowded close to the Prussian. “Is that what you’re sayin’, mister? That our food ain’t fit for the hogs?”

  “Weg von mir, dummkopf!”

  The first dragoon looked around at his comrade. “What’d he say?”

  “Dunno. But if I had to guess, I’d say he called you stupid. Dummkopf means dummy, don’t it?”

  The Prussian laughed, nodded, and said, “Ja, dummkopf! Ein verdammt dummkopf!”

  The dragoon called Jessup erupted with curses. “No damn furriner’s gonna call me names!” he yelled as he swung a punch at the Prussian’s face.

  He moved fast enough that the Prussian wasn’t able to block the blow. Jessup’s fist smacked cleanly into the Prussian’s face and rocked his head back, making him stagger back a couple of steps.

  The Prussian caught his balance, roared something in his native tongue, and charged the dragoon who had just struck him. Jessup leaped to the side, stuck out a leg, and the Prussian stumbled over it. As the Prussian took several wild steps forward, waving his arms and trying to keep from falling, the second dragoon clubbed his hands together and smashed them down on the foreign soldier’s back.

  The Prussian fell hard and buried his face in the mud when he landed.

  He came up sputtering and choking as he clawed at his mouth, nose, and eyes. A man could drown in mud. He swiped it desperately away from his face as the two dragoons laughed at him.

  That laughter came to an abrupt end as another bull-like bellow sounded behind him. They jerked their heads around and tried to turn, but they didn’t make it in time. Another Prussian soldier, with his arms stretched out as far as he could reach on both sides, plowed into them and swept them off their feet.

  More Prussians were right behind him. They pounced on the two dragoons, pinning them to the ground, hammering punches at them, digging knees into the Americans’ ribs.

  The fight hadn’t gone unnoticed, of course. Yelling eagerly, more dragoons stompe
d through the mud, grabbed the Prussians, and pulled them off the two cooks. They weren’t much more fond of the food the two men had come up with than the Prussians were, but they weren’t going to stand by and do nothing while foreigners pounded on Americans.

  The dragoons outnumbered the foreign troops four to one, and although not everyone on either side joined in the battle, it wasn’t long before the overwhelming odds meant that all the Prussians who had jumped into the fight were down, being pummeled and kicked and having their faces forced into the deep mud. Lieutenant Curry and Feldwebel Becker stood on the outskirts of the fight and yelled orders for the men to stop, but no one paid any attention to them.

  Preacher and Jamie arrived and waded into the melee. Jamie grabbed two of the dragoons by their collars, hauled them upright, and flung them behind him like rag dolls. A few feet away, Preacher wrapped an arm around another dragoon’s neck and hauled him off the man he was trying to drown in the mud.

  Dog didn’t want to be left out and darted in and out of the fight, snarling and snapping but not actually biting anyone. Even so, the big cur was intimidating enough to make men let go of their opponents and scramble to get away from him.

  Colonel Sutton added his voice to those of Curry and Becker as they shouted for a stop to the hostilities. Finally, the Americans withdrew, cursing and stumbling in the muck. The Prussians, their uniforms covered with the thick, sticky stuff, struggled upright and tried to get the mud out of their mouths, noses, and eyes.

  Baron von Kuhner stalked over to Sutton and snapped, “The behavior of your men is abominable, Colonel! I have never seen such an undisciplined rabble.”

  Lieutenant Curry stiffened in outrage and began, “Now listen here, mister—”

  Sutton raised a hand to silence the young officer. To von Kuhner, he said coldly, “I wouldn’t start casting blame before we even know what happened, Baron. I assure you, I intend to find out, and if any of my troops were responsible for this, they’ll be punished appropriately.”

  Von Kuhner sneered. “I would have such brawlers flogged.”

  “With all due respect, Baron”—Sutton’s tone made it clear that not much actual respect was involved—“these dragoons aren’t under your command.”

  “I believe the orders from your War Department said for you to assist us in any way possible. That could be interpreted as meaning that all of you are under my command.”

  “And that interpretation would be incorrect,” Sutton shot back just as sharply.

  The two of them glared at each other in the rain for several seconds, then von Kuhner said, “This mission cannot succeed if our men are always at each other’s throats.”

  “Now that, I agree with, Baron. I assure you, I’ll take steps to see that it doesn’t happen again.”

  Off to one side, Jamie and Preacher glanced at each other. The meaning behind the look they exchanged was clear to both of them. Colonel Sutton could promise all he wanted to that such a battle wouldn’t happen again . . . but neither of the two frontiersmen believed for a second that such an outcome was likely.

  Jamie looked around and said quietly, “Where’s Lomax? I’m a mite surprised that he wasn’t in the big middle of that ruckus.”

  “I’m right here, MacCallister,” said Lomax from behind them. He stepped around to join them. “Didn’t I tell you I was gonna keep out of trouble from now on?”

  “You told me,” Jamie admitted.

  “But you didn’t believe me, did you?” Instead of being offended, Lomax chuckled. “You just hide and watch, MacCallister. You’ll see that I meant what I said.”

  “For all of our sakes, I hope you’re right.” Jamie looked at the muddy figures stumbling around, getting ready to break the midday camp and push on. He shook his head in disgust at the pathetic sight.

  No matter how large and well-armed this bunch was, he wasn’t sure they were going to stand a chance against the Blackfeet.

  Chapter 24

  The rain stayed with them the rest of that day, all night, and was still coming down the next morning. Despite their best efforts, all the men were soaked to the skin, chilled to the bone, and miserable to the depths of their souls.

  Colonel Sutton sought out Jamie and Preacher. “You men are more familiar with this region than I am. How long is a rain such as this likely to last?”

  Roscoe Lomax, who was standing close enough to overhear the conversation, spoke up before either of the other two frontiersmen could answer. “One time down on the Santa Fe Trail at this time o’ year,” he said, “I seen it rain for more ’n a week solid, without ever a letup. The wagons all bogged down so bad they couldn’t move, and we just had to wait it out.”

  Sutton looked alarmed. “Do you think the mud will get bad enough that it’s impassable?”

  “Probably not, since we’re on horseback, not hauling wagons,” said Jamie. “We can keep moving. It’ll just be mighty slow going, though.”

  “Then you don’t believe we should stay here and try to wait it out?”

  “Ain’t no tellin’ how long it’s gonna rain,” said Preacher. “Might last another week, like Lomax said, or it might stop and clear off before the day’s over. No way of knowin’ what it’s gonna do.”

  Sutton thought the situation over for a long moment, then nodded. “In that case, we might as well push on as best we can. We’ll still be covering ground toward our destination, even if we’re not going very fast.”

  “There’ll likely be some complaints,” Jamie warned the colonel.

  “I don’t care. It’s their job on both sides to follow orders. We’ll have breakfast as best we can and then prepare to move out. I’ll tell Lieutenant Curry to issue the orders.”

  Jamie, Preacher, and Lomax all nodded.

  Jamie’s prediction was accurate. A lot of grumbling went on as the men got ready to move out, but by the time a lessening of the gloom suggested the sun was up, the expedition was on its way again, slowly slogging northward.

  Preacher hadn’t made a prediction about the weather, but he had mentioned the possibility that the rain could stop and the clouds might break up before the day was over. That was exactly what happened. By the middle of the day, the steady, sluicing rain tailed off to a drizzle. It slowed even more and finally stopped completely by the middle of the afternoon.

  Not long after that, gaps began to appear in the clouds to the north, and narrow areas of blue sky were visible. The sun wasn’t shining, yet, but the world began to seem like a brighter, less miserable place.

  When the sun finally came out, the temperature rose quickly, growing quite warm for the season. The dampness rising from the soaked landscape made the air heavy and oppressive. Even so, everyone was so glad the rain had stopped that a sort of merriment gripped the group.

  Preacher remarked on that to Jamie. “Those ol’ boys may be in such a good mood they’ll feel like fightin’ again, just to let off some steam.”

  “Could be,” Jamie agreed. “Or maybe the spirit of good fellowship will keep things peaceful for a while.”

  Preacher grunted and frowned dubiously at the idea but didn’t argue.

  When they made camp, the atmosphere was more like what Jamie had suggested. Particularly after the Prussians got a couple of bottles from their supplies and began passing them around, even sharing them with some of the American dragoons.

  Jamie found Feldwebel Becker and asked the noncommissioned officer, “What sort of who-hit-John is in those bottles they’re passing around?”

  Becker frowned in confusion. “Who-hit-John,” he repeated. “Was ist los? Do you mean, what sort of drink is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ah. Schnapps. Obstbrand. Apple and pear brandy.”

  Jamie nodded. “I’ve heard of the stuff. I don’t know how good an idea it is to let them get drunk. They’ll have headaches in the morning.”

  Becker snorted. “They are good, strong men. Mere headaches will not bother them.”

  “As long as
they can get up and do whatever they need to, I suppose it won’t hurt anything.”

  “Including fight Indians?”

  Jamie squinted in thought. “It’ll be another week or more before we get into Blackfoot country. Of course, there’s always a chance we might run across some Cheyenne or Kiowa who feel like a scrap. Most of the tribes are busy hunting right now, so they can stock up on meat for the winter. They’re not as interested in raiding and fighting at this time of year.”

  “It might be good to have some fighting along the way,” said Becker. “My men will get . . . rusty, is that how you say it? . . . if they go too long without spilling blood.”

  “They’ll get their chance before we’re done,” Jamie said confidently.

  From where the men were gathered around the cooking fire, a song suddenly burst out. Jamie couldn’t understand the words and figured the Prussians were singing in their own language. The song had a harsh, martial sound to it. Some of the Americans must have been picking up on it, because they joined in, even though they probably had no idea what they were singing about.

  Becker walked off, and Jamie rejoined Preacher, closer to the fire.

  The mountain man made a face and said, “That racket’ll hurt your ears after a while. I think Dog’s fixin’ to start howlin’ along with ’em.”

  “Yeah, it doesn’t sound very good,” Jamie said, “but at least they’re not throwing punches at each other.”

  * * *

  Hangovers were plentiful the next morning, but other than being bleary-eyed and stumbling around a little more than usual, the men were able to get up, prepare for the day, and move out as usual.

  After they had been riding for a while, Lieutenant Curry rode up to the front of the column. “Colonel, one of the men on guard duty last night told me that he heard some sort of wild animals howling out on the prairie, not too far from the camp. Do you think it could have been wolves? Do we need to increase the guard at night?”

  “It weren’t wolves,” Preacher said, shaking his head.

  “I heard the same thing,” Jamie said, “and I agree it wasn’t wolves.”