Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (25 page)

“Didn't.” He answered it short and flat. “Simple as that. Learning about Injins from an old trapper. But more than that, I figure the savage mind isn't that different the world over. In the land of my birth, ancient Celts would've done the same, I suppose. Important thing is,” Seamus strode around the horse, gazing at Carrington, “Ridgeway Glover wasn't a coward. Not the way he fought in the trenches at Crazy Woman Crossing. Every bit a man as any of us there that day.”

“I'll vouch for that, sir,” Wands replied.

“Lieutenant Bisbee, see that Glover is prepared for burial,” Carrington instructed, “then bring me his personal effects. I'll ship them East. Next of kin.”

“A sad thing,” a new voice said, “this civilian getting himself killed this way.”

Carrington wheeled to find himself gazing into the eyes of a stranger dressed in a second lieutenant's uniform, complete with insignia identifying him as an officer of the 2nd Battalion, 18th Infantry. “Who have I the pleasure——”

“Grummond, sir.” He saluted snappily. With a smile flashing beneath his dark, bushy and very droopy mustache. “George Washington Grummond.”

Carrington returned the salute. Then presented his hand. “Good to meet you at last, Mr. Grummond. Heard much about you.” He waved Bisbee's detail to stables before motioning the new lieutenant up the headquarters steps. “Please. Let's go in and get acquainted.”

Seamus turned to watch Bisbee's detail plod away as the pair disappeared through Carrington's pine-plank door. Every horse but the one led across the parade toward the hospital with its grisly burden.

“Mr. Donegan?”

Seamus turned at Jack Stead's familiar English seaman's accent. The young, buckskinned scout came down the steps from the headquarters' porch.

“You must be the one Bridger said he'd take to the Crow camp. He mentioned your fight of it at the Crazy Woman as well.”

“An interesting journey, both were. Like the old man, I do. Sorry he's staying up at Fort C.F. Smith after visiting the Crow. He wouldn't say, but I suspect his rheumatiz was acting up. Me, I come on down straight-off.”

“Seems he took a shine to you, Mr. Donegan. Even told me you were trying to make some sense of the Indian's code.”

“Their signal mirrors? I've been trying, with no luck as yet.”

Jack Stead fell silent a moment as he watched the Irishman gazing after the riderless horse plodding toward the infirmary. “You knew him?”

“Glover?” Donegan turned. “No. Not really. We rode up from Laramie together. A quiet man.” Seamus fell silent. Either the wind whipping its way across the dusty parade, or perhaps something altogether different turned the Irishman's eyes moist.

“Name's Jack Stead.” The scout presented his hand.

“Yes, I know,” Donegan's voice boomed thick and low. “Pleased, Mr. Stead.”

“Besides being a man who knows something of the Indian's ways, Seamus Donegan appears to be a man of some sentiment.”

Donegan appraised the scout for a moment. “I might be, that. Who might be asking such a question of me?”

“A man who respects Jim Bridger more than any other. And when Jim Bridger tells me he's taken a liking to an Irishman name of Donegan—that's says a lot in my book. But when I see you troubled by another man's death, out in this land where so many are bound to die—and soon—well, Mr. Donegan, that tells me even more of the man you are.”

Donegan smiled. “You're for certain a cully Englishman, aren't you?”

“Born outside Liverpool. But I left British ways behind long ago.”

“Never met an Englishman I liked, Jack Stead.”

“Not asking you to like me, Seamus Donegan. Besides, I'm no more English now than you are. We're free men. On the boot in this wild and savage land.”

“Free men, eh?” Donegan smiled, his rows of teeth gleaming in the sun. “We're Americans, I take it?”

“Nawww,” and Jack shook his head. “Men like us belong to no country. These soldiers—now, they're the Americans. And the Sioux—they have their homeland too. But you and me are a breed apart. We've no home but what we make for ourselves. Cast about as the loners in the world, Seamus Donegan.”

The Irishman clapped a big paw across Stead's back. “C'mon, me cully friend.” Smiling, he yanked Jack along at his side. “I've got me a turrible thirst and I hear the sutler's opened his barrel for the day. There's nothing that cuts the lonely of this dangerous place like drinking with a new friend.”

*   *   *

“My Margaret will be fluttering around your Frances soon as she learns you're expecting a child, Lieutenant.” Carrington showed Grummond a chair.

“She dreaded the loneliness of frontier duty, yet followed. I believe Frances understands that it's here that my career will be made,” George Grummond replied.

“Yes. Many careers will be forged here in the West,” Carrington agreed, his eyes scanning the papers Grummond handed him. “Forged in sweat and toil, blood and bone.”

“We watched your timber train pull in just before we drove through the gates. Unfortunately, Frances saw the naked body of that poor worker. Hacked to——”

“I apologize your wife had to view such a scene, especially in light of her condition.”

“She's strong, sir. Good family stock. I'm just afraid it won't be her last shock as an army wife.”

Carrington looked up. “That's something I'm sure we could all put a bet on, Lieutenant. Well, in reading over your record, I'm most impressed! I asked for experienced, proven officers—and Omaha actually sent me one. You served with a Michigan volunteer infantry regiment. Was Frances a childhood sweetheart?”

“No, sir. We met during the war. A daughter of the South. Tennessee, born and bred. A genteel slip of a girl, Colonel.”

“The breeding I've heard so much about, no doubt.”

“We exchanged vows after the war. Her family wouldn't hear of marriage while they waged their cause against the Union. The North won its war. And I my bride.”

“You sound like a romantic, Lieutenant.”

“We both are, sir. Incurably romantic.”

“Good. I see that following the war you applied for a regular commission, which you were awarded because of your brilliant war record. You were breveted Lieutenant Colonel of your regiment for heroism in face of the enemy.”

The lieutenant's eyes found the floor. While proud of his war record, George Washington Grummond still found himself embarrassed.

“Come now. No need for modesty, young man. This is a record to be admired. You're just what your colonel ordered! This has become a splendid day … despite the deaths.” Carrington turned back to his desk and swept up some other papers. He looked at Grummond. “You arrive to join my staff. And a contract commissary train from Laramie pulls in just before you with sixty-thousand rounds of rifle ammunition. Why, I had each soldier down to his last three rounds! We've been virtually cut off by the hostiles for weeks now, Lieutenant.”

“They've laid siege to you, sir?”

Carrington nodded, blinking. “We're surrounded … in the midst of this great wilderness. Now, after all this time, I finally receive the ammunition I've requested!”

“Glad to hear of its arrival, sir.”

“So, let's see what this letter from General Sherman has to say, shall we?” He spread the foolscap open and began to read.

“He writes from Laramie. Where he visited the end of last month. August. On his tour of western posts. He goes on to say:

“I shall instruct General Cooke to reinforce his force at this post so that expeditions in sufficient strength can go out to punish the Indians. We want to avoid a general Indian war …

“I'm glad as hell to have Sherman say that!” Carrington gushed.

“… as long as possible, until we get the new army further advanced in recruiting.”

Grummond cleared his throat. “Seems they're having a hell of a time getting the regiments rebuilt after the war, sir. What with the volunteers being mustered out and so many troops ordered South on reconstruction duty. It amazes me that the army has any soldiers to send west to fight Red Cloud at all, Colonel.”

“Let's just hope we don't have an all-out fight with Red Cloud, Lieutenant. It appears the army's not ready to give me what I'd need to fight that war I'm afraid is coming. Never enough soldiers. A dire shortage of good officers like yourself. And they're stingy with the ammunition. I'll never … but Sherman goes on:

“The Indians seem to oppose the opening of the new road, but that must stimulate us to its protection, and you may rest assured that you will be supported all that is possible …

“Perhaps Sherman can nudge General Cooke to support me a bit more ably, Lieutenant. All Omaha can do is chastise me for not getting my mail to them on time. I beg for men and weapons. While Cooke demands his mail!

“… We must try and distinguish friendly from hostile and kill the latter, but if you or any other commanding officer strike a blow, I will approve, for it seems impossible to tell the true from the false.”

Carrington fell silent, contemplative as he wordlessly reread the last line. “Isn't that the truth?” he asked aloud, his eyes glued to the page. “Here we are, in the middle of this wild country—completely surrounded, and virtually cut off from the outside world by Red Cloud's warriors—and Sherman tells me I'll find it hard to tell the true Indian from the false. Little does he know I've found my real problem telling my true friend and officer from the false.”

Chapter 19

Henry Carrington hunched over his desk far into the night. Among the letters the dispatch rider carried up from Laramie he found one from Cooke, once again chastising Carrington for his mail getting to Omaha late. Nothing said about reinforcements. No mention of ammunition forthcoming. Instead, Cooke scolded him about the many newspaper accounts reporting civilian murders along the Montana Road.

Repeatedly reminding Carrington that as commander of the Mountain District, he was answerable for the administration of his duties. Reports. Dispatches. Rosters.

When Henry shuffled to the sheet-iron stove to warm his mug of coffee from the battered pot Wands had left bubbling, he sensed the draft sneaking in around the plank door. As he peered out the smoky window, autumn's first snowfall whipped and skipped across the dark parade.
It will be a long, long winter, I'm afraid.

Sipping at the scalding coffee, Carrington scanned his report to Cooke, recognizing for the first time that pent-up intensity evident in his cramped scrawl as it raced across the pages.

Mail has arrived. I send directly back Lt. Gen. Sherman wrote me from Laramie to endeavor to keep you more frequently advised. I am doing all I can with my broken-down and famished horses, not having received a pound of corn yet …

… No women or children have been captured or injured by Indians in this district since I entered it …

… While more troops are needed, I can say (and I am in the very heart of the hostile district) that most of the newspaper reports are gross exaggerations. I gather and furnish you, as requested, all the bad news, neither coloring nor disguising facts …

… contract commissary arrived this date from Laramie. 60,000 rounds of badly needed ammunition. From same civilian contractor I was able to purchase a few tons of some badly-needed corn for our weakening stock. Have not received the promised shipment of grain …

… not near enough ammunition. I ought to have, if possible, a hundred thousand more, and from Laramie more ammunition for my 12-pound field howitzers …

… Red Cloud is known to command the parties now immediately engaged … they are determined to burn the country, cut off supplies, and hamper every movement …

… those hostile parties now effectively sealing off the fort and placing us under a state of siege have made effective use of small mirrors for communication in their constant harassment …

… chief of scouts Bridger has sent word through dispatch rider from Fort C.F. Smith. In talks with Crows, Bridger informed of more than five hundred lodges of Sioux camped on Tongue River. All very hostile, and some even armed with latest rifles. He heard reports of a renegade white man among the Arapahos. Additionally, hears many reports of other “squawmen” and Confederate soldiers who have joined forces with hostiles to drive other miners and all white men from the Montana gold country …

… in the midst of my sad report, this bit of happy news. Near sundown a brigade of miners arrived, down from the north. Had left the Montana fields to search new finds in the Big Horns. They were repeatedly attacked en route. Two men killed yesterday on the Tongue. Their elected leader, one Wm. Bailey, a former scout & prospector in this region for 17 years. I immediately hired more than forty men of Bailey's group—all crack shots and frontiersmen, cool under fire. Capt. Brown will have no trouble finding work for these men, who will receive cavalry pay as you suggested in your 11 August telegram. Miners put the matter to a vote and have elected to stay the winter. I now have secured the equivalent of an armed and mounted cavalry regiment!

… with Ten Eyck's arms inspection this date, I am informed of their sad condition and want of proper arms to prosecute our aims in the Mountain District Many Springfields unserviceable. Some men not armed at all, because of thefts by deserters and others. Badly need pistols and carbines, as rifles no good for mounted men …

“Thank you, Tenedor,” Carrington said. “That … that'll be all.”

Carrington watched Ten Eyck lick a tongue across his chapped lips. He's hungover again, Henry thought to himself as the captain turned to go.
He drinks more and more every day. And sleeps when he's not drinking. Yet Brown drinks two bottles to Tenedor's one. And works on—early each morning to late at night. Damn Kinney's alcohol anyway! Were it that none of them drank
 …