Heaven and Hell (74 page)

468 HEAVEN AND HELL

wielding axes roused them and started them staggering away. Marksmen brought down three.

Like ants on a white sand beach, Charles and the other scouts moved through a snowy grove. They dug up fallen limbs protruding from drifts, or cut smaller volunteer trees among the bigger ones; they
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would at least have fires for warmth, even if they got no food from the lost wagons.

Charles and Dutch Henry piled up their wood and went to feed their mounts on the picket line. Satan acted famished; he finished his small ration of oats so greedily, Charles thought the piebald might chew off his fingers.

Next, mostly using their hands, they dug out snow to create their campsite. When they had the snow down to two or three inches, they stomped it to pack it; it was the best floor they were going to get. Of course as soon as they pitched their two-man tent and started a fire outside, the tent floor melted and soaked their blankets.

As the night lowered, Charles heard heavy creakings and poppings--the wagons and their drivers' whips. General Custer went riding past in the storm, Maida and Blucher loping behind.

Custer's cheeks were red as blistered skin.

". . . want to see every last one of those damn malingering teamsters in twenty minutes in my . . ."

The general vanished behind a tossed-up cloud of snow. Charles had never seen him in such a bad temper, or heard him curse.

Old Bob, who'd kept up pretty well all day, seemed to know it was a night of misery. He stayed close to Charles, nuzzling his canvas leggings and whining.

They unpacked their skillets, unfolded the handles, melted some snow and boiled salt pork. Several pieces of hardtack, softened by sticking them in a drift, went into the pork grease and fried up nicely. That and coffee provided a passable meal, though Charles was still frozen, and chafed raw by the rubbing of his layers of clothing. He kept reminding himself of why he was here. He pictured each member of the Jackson Trading Company as he last saw him.

Captain Fred Benteen stomped by, muttering, "Goddamn idiot."

"Who?" Charles asked.

"The general. Do you know what he just did?"

"What?" Griffenstein asked, in a tone that said a mass execution wouldn't surprise him.

"Arrested all the teamsters for being so slow. Tomorrow they're forbidden to ride in their wagons. They have to walk. We won't have any wagons after that."

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He went away into the falling snow. Old Bob whined, and Charles Washita 469

rubbed his muzzle and fed him a morsel of boiled pork. From that moment, a formless uneasiness about the expedition began to trouble him.

It had nothing to do with the presence of Harry Venable.

Because of Charles's reb background, he was something of a curiosity.

Young Louis Hamilton, the likable captain in command of A Troop, brought the journalist around after dark. He introduced him as a phonographic reporter representing the New York Herald.

DeBenneville Keim was eager to talk to Charles. Charles didn't reciprocate, but he poured him a tin cup of coffee to be hospitable.

Keim drank some, then pulled a small, worn book from his coat. The title was stamped in gold on the spine. After the War.

"I've been reading Whitelaw Reid, Mr. Main. You were in South Carolina when Sumter fell. Tell me what you think of this passage about Sullivan's Island."

He handed Charles the book. Reid was a nationally famous Union correspondent who had written field dispatches under the name "Agate."

He'd been one of the first three jdurnalists into Richmond. Charles blinked several times as melting snowflakes dripped water from his eyebrows onto the page and read:

Here, four years ago, the first fortifications of the war were thrown up.

Here the dashing young cavaliers, the haughty Southrons who scorned the Yankee scum, rushed madly into the war as into a picnic. Here the boats from Charleston landed every day cases of champagne, pates innumerable, casks of claret, thousands of Havana cigars, for the use of

the luxurious young Captains and Lieutenants. Here, with feasting, and dancing, and love making, with music improvised from the ball room, and enthusiasm fed to madness by well-ripened old Madeira, the freehanded, free-mannered young men who had ruled '"society" at Newport and Saratoga, dashed into revolution as they would into a waltz. . . '.

Keim put a red-ruled notebook on his knee. The pages were filled with the squiggles of phonography, a journalistic shorthand. "It's a vivid picture. Was that really how it was?"

A vast sadness rose in Charles. He thought of poor Ambrose Pell.

'Yes, but not for very long. And it's all gone now. It'll never come back."

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He snapped the book shut and thrust it at Keim. Something strange 2nd bleak on his face forestalled any more questions; Keim directed them to Dutch Henry instead. Charles rubbed Old Bob to silence his growling.

470 * HEAVEN AND HELL

Next day the march resumed, the punished teamsters struggling along on foot. The storm abated. The clouds cleared, but that created another difficulty. The glare of sun on the drifted snowfields was unmerciful on the eyes.

They advanced in a southwesterly direction, following the Wolf, which enabled Charles to put his compass away. He rode well in front with several of the Osages, who kept giving him uneasy stares because he sang to himself, in a raspy near-monotone:

"The old sheep done know the road,

The old sheep done know the road,

The old sheep done know the road . . .

The young lamb must find the way."

"Where'd you learn that?" Dutch Henry inquired.

"The nigras on the sea islands back home sing it. Church song."

"You make it sound like we're goin' to a funeral."

"I just have a funny feeling about this, Henry. A bad feeling."

"Well, you wanted to be here."

"That I did." Charles shrugged; maybe he was a damn fool. But the uneasiness stayed.

The route of march was planned to take them upstream to a point where they could strike southward to the Antelope Hills near the North Canadian. The bed of Wolf Creek soon turned in a more westerly direction.

Once again exhausted from breaking through so many high drifts, and half blinded by a sun not warm enough to melt the snow significantly, they staggered into another campsite on bluffs above the creek.

Charles heard that one of the teamsters had pulled a pistol on Curly, who kicked his balls, disarmed him single-handed, and ordered him flogged with knotted rope. Griffenstein said Custer had summoned the phonographic reporter and ordered him not to write a word about the punishment if he wanted to continue with the expedition.

"Kind of stupid to offend a reporter that way, don't you think, Charlie?"

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"Not if you're watching your ass. Not if you want to run for President someday."

In the morning they bore away from their westerly course and advanced due south. Here and there a few dark patches of woodland showed on the horizon, like charcoal smears on a clean sheet of drawing paper. Some topography was apparent despite the great amount of snow.

From the Wolf, the prairie sloped upward slightly to a ridge line or Washita 471

divide. By afternoon they were on the downward side. They encamped that night about a mile north of the Canadian.

Charles and California Joe did a sweep along the river, which was still flowing very rapidly, considerably over its banks. Massive ice chunks came swirling down with the current. They located a ford that looked passable. More sober than Charles had ever seen him, Joe Milner cautiously walked his mule across it. Suddenly he sank six inches.

"Quicksand. Well, they ain't any other place to cross. She'll have to do."

After he struggled out, they returned and reported. Custer seemed satisfied. Dutch Henry said Major Elliott had already left with three troops, and no wagons, to range up the valley of the Canadian in search of Indians. The Corbin brothers and several of the Osages had gone with Elliott. Dutch Henry finished his remarks with a reminder that tomorrow, Thursday, would be Thanksgiving.

Charles didn't care very much. It was a Northern holiday, and no Army cooks would be serving the traditional big dinner in this frozen wasteland.

Quicksand, icy water, dangerous ice chunks that smashed wheel spokes and lamed two horses caused the Canadian crossing to take more than three hours early on Thanksgiving Day. Every trooper, civilian, and Indian was soggy and dispirited when it was over, but they perked up at the sight of the Antelope Hills straight ahead. Reaching these familiar formations proved they hadn't wandered aimlessly.

The five clustered hillocks were anywhere from one hundred fifty to three hundred feet high. Two were conical, three oblong, and from the highest there was a magnificent view of the country: the twisty Canadian behind and, ahead, a vista of snowfields that seemed to roll on
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and on forever.

Early in the afternoon, shouts signaled the approach of a rider coming in from the direction Elliott's column had taken. Trumpeters summoned the officers and scouts to Custer's marquee, where there was a great state of excitement. Maida and Blucher leaped and yapped. Custer struck each dog lightly with a riding crop, and they made no more noise.

"Repeat it for those who just got here, Jack," Custer said.

"Major Elliott's about twelve miles or so up the north bank," Jack Corbin said. "There's a crossing, and sign aplenty. 'Bout one hundred

"fty hostiles passed over, going a little east of south. The sign ain't more than a day old."

Charles's fingers started to tingle. Excited murmurs greeted the news, and Custer's blister-red face fairly beamed. Handsome Harry

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Venable, whose hostile looks didn't faze Charles any longer, stated the obvious:

"If we keep on and they do, too, they'll cross our trail ahead of us. Maybe today."

"Aye God," California Joe said, reeling slightly from some recent refreshment. "It's Thanksgiving Day, and we got Custer's Luck."

Some of the sycophantic officers went, "Hear, hearV and clapped.

The anti-Custer men, including Benteen, glowered. Custer himself looked renewed; he couldn't stand still.

"I want the men ready in twenty minutes for a night march. No tents, no blankets. One hundred rounds per man, a little coffee and hardtack and that's all. We'll take seven wagons and one ambulance.

The rest of the baggage train stays here with one troop and the officer of the day. Where is he?"

"Here, sir." Captain Louis Hamilton stepped forward. He looked unhappy. "I beg the general's permission to go with the detachment.

I'll bet those damn Indians are close to their lair, and we're going to find it."

"I commend your enthusiasm, Hamilton. I share it." By now Custer was fairly dancing around the marquee. His blood was up, and so was that of almost everyone else. Charles wondered why, after so many months of yearning for revenge, he didn't share the excitement.

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Custer continued: "If you can find a substitute in twenty minutes, you're welcome to ride with us."

"Yes, sir," Hamilton exclaimed, like a boy given a handful of candy. He dashed out without bothering to salute. Everyone laughed.

To Jack Corbin, Custer said: "Can you get back to Major Elliott?"

"With a fresh horse I can, General."

"Tell him to continue the pursuit with all vigor. We should intersect with him about dark. Tell him to expect that."

Corbin hurried away. Custer dismissed the others. There was a huge push to leave the marquee.

Dutch Henry fairly exploded with good

humor. "I think we're gonna get what we come for, Charlie."

The advance sounded in twenty minutes precisely. The designated force, eleven troops and Cooke's Sharpshooters, struck south again through high drifts. Hamilton was along; an officer suffering partial snow blindness had agreed to take charge of the wagons.

The weather had moderated a little; the drifts were melting. In a couple of hours, Hard Rope and another Osage galloped back past Charles, shouting in pidgin, "Me find. Me find." Dutch Henry eyed the trail ahead. Charles nudged Satan to follow the big man's horse. Several of the stray dogs frolicked along too, leaping and barking.

Washita 473

w

It

was a find, all right. Clear sign of the Indian party, as big as Corbin said, with no marks of travois. Braves, then. On a last raid or

hunt. The trail continued on through the level, treeless country in a southeasterly direction.

Now there was impromptu singing as they advanced--"Jine the Cavalry" and other Army ditties. Everyone felt warmer, and they had the prospect of an engagement, not just an endless advance through snow. Old Bob kept jumping in the air. He barked almost constantly.

Toward the end of the daythe land began to change again. From the level prairie, it sloped slightly downward in a long descent to a horizon-spanning stand of misty timber still miles away. Custer sent Griffenstein ahead with orders to find Elliott and stop his advance until the main column caught up. Elliott was to choose a rendezvous where there was running water and a supply of wood.

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Charles judged it to be about five in the afternoon when they reached the edge of the timber. His belly gurgled and contracted painfully. He was sure Satan was just as hungry; none of the horses had eaten anything since 4:00 a.m., thirteen hours-ago, and Charles had munched only a piece of hardtack, which nearly broke a tooth before he got it softened with spit. He realized that the advance had become one of Custer's ruthless forced marches.

On and on they rode through the mazy timber. Darkness came, and renewed cold. The mushy drifts froze into a hard crust that crackled at each step the horses took; the night seemed alive with a sound like musketry. The dogs barked, sabers clinked, men cursed as the march went on past seven o'clock.

Past eight.

About 9:00 p.m., Charles saw an orange glow ahead. He circled a dark tree trunk and discerned several similar glows. He speeded Satan past the Osages to an expanse of treeless ground. A sentry leaped up to challenge him and Charles shouted, "General Custer's column. Is this Elliott?"