The Crossed Sabres (12 page)

Faith smiled, then impulsively gave the girl a hug. “I’ll think of you, Laurie.”

A quick stab of regret ran through Winslow.
Laurie needs a woman,
he thought, and he said quickly, “If you’ll be here in Bismarck, perhaps we can see you again. We’ll be living at Fort Abraham Lincoln.”

Faith’s expression changed, and she exclaimed, “Why, how nice! Perhaps you’ll let Laurie come and stay with me sometime.” She gave the girl a warm smile, adding, “We could read lots of books together, couldn’t we?”

“I’d like that,” Laurie said, her eyes glowing.

Faith turned to the couple, who had drawn off to one side, watching with interest. “This is Reverend Willis Crenshaw and his wife,” she said, then nodded toward the Winslows. “And this is Mr. Winslow and his daughter Laurie. They were very helpful to me on the trip.”

Willis Crenshaw was a slight, wiry man of fifty with a smooth, pale face. There was something about his manners that proclaimed his calling, not at all displeasing, however. His eyes were warm and brown behind small rimless glasses, and his voice was deep and resonant. “Happy to meet you, sir,” he nodded. “Are you staying in Bismarck?”

“I’ll be joining the Seventh Cavalry, Reverend,” Tom said, and his statement drew a surprised glance from Faith.

“Indeed? A fine body of men, and General Custer has my full admiration. You must come and visit our church, Mr. Winslow. It’s small, but we feel it’s a fine one for all of that.”

“Thank you, Reverend Crenshaw,” Winslow nodded, picking up his bags. “Let’s go Laurie.”

“Have you known Mr. Winslow long, Miss Jamison?” Mrs. Crenshaw asked. She was a plain woman, appearing to be somewhat older than her husband, perhaps because she looked emaciated and sickly.

“Oh no. We met on the trip.”

Mrs. Crenshaw frowned, but she said only, “You must be exhausted. Come along, Pastor, let’s take Miss Jamison to the house.”

“Yes, indeed,” Crenshaw nodded, and scurried off to get Faith’s luggage into the buggy. When they were on the way to the parsonage, he commented, “We were expecting a married couple for the work here, Miss Jamison. It’s difficult for a single woman.” Then he saw from her expression that he had said the wrong thing. “Well, you’ll find the work here difficult, but rewarding.” Faith listened as he spoke cheerfully about the new addition on the church building that he was planning.

After watching the Crenshaws take off in the direction of the town, Winslow asked the agent, “How far to Fort Lincoln?”

“Four miles.” He nodded toward an elderly man carrying a sack of mail out to a wagon. “Ride along with Jed there if you’d like. Tell him I said it’d be all right.”

“I appreciate it.” He turned, picked up the bags, and when he and Laurie got to the wagon, said, “The agent told us we might ride with you to the fort.”

“Sure. Put your stuff in the back.” Winslow dumped the bags in the bed of the wagon, helped Laurie to the seat, then joined her. As the wagon moved briskly along, the harness chains made a little melody. They passed along a crooked road that ran toward a high plateau upon which sat a group of houses. Beyond that lay bottom lands reaching to the Missouri River. “There’s the fort,” the driver mentioned, waving his hand toward a bluff on the opposite shore.

The wagon eased down to the deck of a river steamer, once glamorous but now dilapidated. As soon as the wagon was aboard, the engines began to send a shuddering through the ship; and when they were halfway across, the current caught the ship and Winslow thought the captain had lost control. The driver, however, showed no concern, but merely spat an amber stream of tobacco juice into the muddy waters. When the ship nosed into the slip, the driver released his brakes, whipped his team into a run, and went up the grade to the top of the bluff.

“There she is,” he announced.

Winslow got his first glimpse of Fort Abraham Lincoln, which occupied a broad level plain between the river and the slope. Like most frontier forts, it was not fortified. Instead, it had groups of buildings arranged with military precision around a parade ground. Officers’ row, a line of seven frame houses, edged the parade ground on the west at the base of the plateau. Facing the officers’ line from the east side of the parade ground were three barracks for enlisted men, with some attached buildings, probably for kitchens and mess halls. Completing the rectangle on the north and south were other buildings, which Winslow accurately guessed to be the structures needed for any installation—commissary and quartermaster storehouses, adjutant’s office, guardhouse, and hospital. Beyond the barracks Winslow saw the stables and
other crude buildings, mostly for the laundresses and their soldier husbands.

The driver passed by the guardhouse post, saying, “Commissary,” and was waved in.

“Do you know where the adjutant’s office might be?”

“Down there at the end of them buildings.”

“Thanks for the ride.” Winslow picked up his suitcase, gave the lighter one to Laurie, and the two of them walked down the wooden walk. It was late afternoon, and the sun was dropping below the ridge to the west of the fort.

When they reached the adjutant’s office, they would have turned in, but at that moment a tall man with a fine bearded face stepped out. He was wearing a dress helmet with a plume and a sabre. Pausing abruptly, he asked, “Can I help you?”

“We’ll wait until after retreat,” Winslow said.

“All right.” The officer continued on, leaving the pair to watch the daily ceremony. Five cavalry companies filed out from the stables to the parade ground, the commands of the officers crisp on the afternoon air. Horsemen trotted briskly, lifting quick puffs of dust from the hard parade ground. One by one, the five companies came into regimental front, each company mounted on horses of matched color, each company’s guidon colorfully waving from the pole affixed in the socket of the guidon corporal’s stirrup. For a moment the regiment remained still, each trooper sitting erect in his saddle.

The adjutant wheeled his horse and came to a halt before the commanding officer, whom Winslow recognized at once as George Armstrong Custer. General Custer’s face was known to most people in America; in fact, he’d become a living legend, his name a household word. Though he was the poorest scholar of his West Point class of 1861, he had been promoted to major general at the age of twenty-five, the youngest in either army, achieving this distinction by his love of bold action and wild charges into the guns of the enemy. He loved the spotlight, and would do anything to attract attention.

Now he saluted the adjutant, spoke a brief word, and the band burst into a brisk march. The officers of the regiment rode slowly front and center, formed a rank, and moved toward the commanding officer, who received their salutes. Then the band stepped out and marched down the front of the regiment, wheeled and marched back. There was a moment of silence, then the massed buglers sounded retreat as the flag was lowered from the pole. When it was in the hands of the trooper waiting to receive it, Custer’s voice rent the air, “Pass in review!”

The first sergeants wheeled, calling sharp commands, and the band broke into another march. The regiment passed before the commanding officer; then at the end of the parade ground, each company pulled away toward its own stable.

As the ceremony ended, one of the officers broke away from the others and came toward the walk. “Tom Winslow!” he called. Winslow turned as the slight officer strode toward him. “I’m Captain Thomas Custer, the general’s younger brother. We’ve been expecting you,” he said, extending his hand to Tom. His restless eyes turned toward Laurie. “This must be your daughter.” He shook hands and smiled at the girl. “You’ll be staying with a very nice lady tonight—Mrs. Jennings.” He searched the rim of the parade ground, then said, “There she is. Come along.”

The woman was about twenty-five, Winslow judged. She had dark blue eyes, brown hair, and an attractive round face. “Mrs. Jennings, this is Mr. Tom Winslow and his daughter Laurie. This is Mrs. Eileen Jennings.”

Winslow pulled off his hat and acknowledged the introduction. “I hope we’re not putting you out, Mrs. Jennings?”

“Not at all.” Her voice was precise and she looked at the girl rather than at him. “Laurie, let me take you to the house. Then your father can join us later for supper.”

Laurie raised her eyes to her father, who smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly to the lady. As the two walked away, Tom heard Mrs. Jennings asking Laurie about
her journey, and Laurie’s response. “I met a lady who gave me a book . . ..”

Winslow turned to Captain Custer. “I appreciate your finding someone, sir,” he said. “Is she one of the officer’s wives?”

“Her husband, Frank, was killed by the Sioux six months ago,” Custer said briefly. “She has no family, so she’s stayed on here. Fine woman,” he commented, then added rather obliquely, “Not interested in men—not yet, anyway.” Then he nodded, saying, “Let’s go talk.”

“Fine.”

The two men entered a small office just off the back of one of the buildings. “I share this with Weir and Moylan, but they use it a lot more than I do.” He waved to one of the chairs, then pulled a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet fastened to the wall. Without asking, he filled two glasses and placed one in front of Winslow. He fell into one of the chairs, drained his glass, and gave a convulsive shudder. Then he grinned at Winslow. “Winslow, I’m glad you’re here. Going to be a big show, and you’ll be right in the middle of it.”

“Well, thanks, sir,” Winslow answered. He twirled the glass gently, observing the swirls it made on the worn desk.

“Call me Tom,” Custer said. From what he knew about Winslow, he was not a person who revealed much about himself.

Winslow glanced up, his black eyes calm and watchful. “What’s happening? Is the pot really going to boil over this time?”

“No other way it can go,” Custer shrugged. “Settlers are pouring into the Black Hills, the Sioux will attack them, and we’ll be sent in to drive the Sioux away.”

“Pretty tough on the Sioux,” Winslow murmured.

“Sure, but it’s coming no matter what anybody says. The same old story, I guess. The weak get pushed aside by the strong.”

That was as close to the truth as anyone was likely to get, Winslow knew. And it had been going on in America since
the days of the firstcomers on the
Mayflower.
The eastern tribes had been the first, fighting a retreat step-by-step until they were either decimated or vanquished to the West. Now with the Civil War over, the expanding population of the East was pushing relentlessly across the country.

“Is there any plan for paying the Sioux for their land?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know,” Tom Custer answered. “I think they’ll be moved to another location.”

What Custer didn’t know was that a scenario for launching a full-scale war against the Indians was already formed. Indian Inspector Erwin C. Watkins had submitted a report on the “wild and hostile bands” in the territory. His report condemned the entire Indian Nation, concluding: “The true policy, in my judgment, is to send troops against them in the winter, the sooner the better, and
whip
them into subjection.” His report, of course, perfectly reflected military views, perhaps the first time in history that the military and the Indian Bureau had agreed. This only occurred because Watkins was a straw man, inexperienced in his post, ignorant of his subject, and owed his position to Generals Sheridan and Crook.

Custer continued speaking of the conflict with the Sioux as though it were a settled affair, and Winslow listened carefully. If Tom Custer, in the confidence of the general, was so certain, there was little doubt. As Custer talked about the strategy necessary to defeat the Sioux, Winslow thought of leaving, for his sympathy lay with the Indians, who only wanted to be left alone. But he had already gone over that option. Finally he asked, “You’ve got plenty of scouts, Tom. Why another one?”

“You won’t be just another scout,” Custer responded. He hesitated, then said in a confidential tone, “Not everyone agrees on this thing. You were in the Confederate Army, but I reckon that bunch had their problems with command, same as we do.” He poured another drink, downed it, then plunged ahead. “Blast it, Tom, my brother’s the best Indian fighter
in America, but some of our own officers won’t give him their loyalty.”

“The general is a man who evokes strong feelings, Tom. Men either love him or hate him. It’d be odd, in my view, if he did command the loyalty of all his men.”

“You’re right, of course—but when we take the field, the general won’t be able to depend on some of the officers. Oh, I don’t mean they’d disobey his orders, but he’s got to have the best information available on the movement of the Sioux. And we can get that only from our scouts. But all of them are civilians.”

“They’re loyal to Custer, though.”

“Sure, but an Indian doesn’t think like a white man. We need a man like you, who’s a scout
and
a soldier. Somebody to be right there. Out with the scouts, but able to weigh their reports. The Crows are so scared of the Sioux; if they see ten of them, they’ll report five hundred!”

After about an hour, Custer said, “Too late to enlist you tonight. Let your daughter stay with Mrs. Jennings. I’ll find you a bunk someplace.”

“All right.”

As they made their way toward Officers’ Row, Custer asked, “What about Laurie? Be pretty lonesome for her around here with you out scouting.”

“Is there a school on the post?”

“No, but there’s one in Bismarck. That’d be the thing to do. Maybe you could find a place to board her with some of the townspeople.”

“No, I’d rather have my own place.”

“All right. I think one of the houses down by Suds Row is vacant.”

“Doesn’t have to be fancy. Laurie and I have roughed it before.”

Custer gave a curious glance. “Eileen’s a handsome woman,” he remarked. “I tried to catch her attention. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

“She’s the widow of an officer,” Winslow said briefly. “She wouldn’t be interested in an enlisted man.”

Custer laughed. “A woman’s a woman, Tom.”