The Better Angels of Our Nature (12 page)

“That animal sure has a mighty fine sense a humor,” commented Jackson to Van Allen.

On both sides of the surgeon, sums of money were changing hands, enlisted men and officers were striking bets on how long the boy could stay mounted, how many bones he would break, and how soon it would be before he cracked his skull open like an eggshell.

Cartwright turned to Andy Jackson and shouted atop the noise, “You have to get this stopped, right now!”

“Why would I wanna do that, Doc?” Jackson shouted back. “The boy don’t mind, the men are havin’ fun, and so far there ain’t been one darn complaint from the horse.”

“You think this is a joke?”

“Take it easy.”

“How can I take it easy when the boy is gonna get his neck broken? Have it stopped—I’m ordering you to have this stopped, right now!”

“Can’t hear yer, Doc.” Andy cupped the shell of his left ear and winked at Van Allen.

Jesse had risen, albeit shakily, to be greeted by a tumultuous cheer and was once more determinedly approaching the humorous animal, who was eyeing him with a craven mix of admiration, pity, and triumph that seemed to say
Okay, runt, you back for more, I’ve got more.

“Listen to me, you don’t understand, you have to stop it—Jesse is…is…”

The aide waited expectantly, grinning from ear to ear, and the surgeon fell silent. “The boy’s
what,
Doc?” Before the surgeon could speak, the Hoosier had let rip with another cheer and more advice. “Hold on, boy! You’ve got him now—hold on I tell yer—hold on there!” Much to Jackson’s delight, Jesse had remounted. The officer removed his hat and waved it in the air shouting, “Go get him, boy! You can do it!”

Cartwright grabbed hold of the aide by his arm. “Will you damn well
listen
to me?”

“I’m listenin’, Doc, but yer ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.” He shook the surgeon’s grip loose.

“Don’t you understand, Jesse is…Jesse is”—Jackson stared at him—“too small to ride that horse,” the surgeon finished lamely.

The aide shoved him aside to shout, “Ride him, cowboy!”

Van Allen looked at the doctor and attempted to show a little more sympathy. “He’ll be all right, Doctor, he’s a tough little fellow.”

“Yer, a tough little fellow,” Cartwright agreed, scooping the hair off his brow. “And game as a two-cent whore.”

Even as he was speaking, Jesse had leapt into the air for a fourth time, as though there were firecrackers attached to his ankles, and for a fourth time he landed in the dirt, face down, his chest heaving as if it would burst with the effort to gulp breath into his lungs.

“The boy’s finished…goddamn it…he kaint take no more.”

“Lord above, hiss gonna try agin.”

“He’s finished, I tell yer. He ain’t never gonna get up.”

“He’s gonna try agin—that boy won’t quit ’til he’s dead.”

“Someone write his mama.”

“Two dollars says the boy don’t ever git up no more.”

“I’ll take some a that—”

“Hey, there’s old Gen Sherman hisself come to take a look-see.”

“Hey, Gen’al, come to see the fun?”

“Mornin’, Gen’al, sir—”

“Let the gen’al through—”

“Hey, let the gen’al pass, you sons a bitches.”

“What’s going on here?” Sherman demanded to know of Captain Jackson, removing the inevitable smoking cigar from between his teeth. “Colonel Buckland and I could hear the shouting from his tent.”

“Gen’al.” Jackson saluted and pointed at Jesse still lying on his back in the dirt, narrow chest heaving. “The boy took a bet he could ride the palomino but it looks like he lost.”

“It’s finished,” Cartwright said. “You’ve all had a good laugh, now it’s over.”

“Not quite,” said Van Allen softly, admiringly, staring across the corral.

“Well, I’ll be a—” Jackson never finished his sentence, he cut it short with the loudest “Yee ha!” ever to issue from the lips of a Westerner.

Jesse was stirring to life, first the red head, then the torso.

Horrified, the surgeon shouted, “Jesse, I order you to stop!”

If the boy heard, he paid no heed to the distressed surgeon. He gathered what was left of his dignity and his kepi, hitched up his torn pants, stuck out his chin, and made tracks for the horse. Cartwright tried to climb under the rope, but Andy held him fast.

The surgeon was appalled. “What in hell do you think you’re doing? Let me go—”

“Look around you, Doc, this is what you might call a diversion, what you medical boys are always tellin’ us we need, to keep up the men’s spirits. I ain’t seen spirits kept up better’n this since before Bull Run.”

“You wanna keep up the men’s spirit by breaking the boy’s neck?” Cartwright asked Sherman incredulously.

“Do you want it stopped, Gen’al?” Jackson inquired.

Sherman stood there a moment. He had watched the boy rise slowly, painfully, determinedly, to his feet, grab up his kepi and move slowly, painfully, determinedly, to the horse, a tiny, curly-haired ghost covered in gray dust, now almost the same color as the animal he sought to tame. The commander listened to the tremendous cheer that went up and he said, “No, Captain.” Just the two words, but his expression spoke volumes.

This time Jesse approached his adversary directly from the front, extending his right hand to the horse’s face, talking to him all the while, “Okay, my handsome boy, we both know that when this is all over you and I are going to be good friends. You’ve had your fun, and so have the men, but we both know I’m going to keep getting up and you’re going to keep throwing me off until this body breaks in half or you’re just too tired to be bothered, whichever comes first,
but I’m not going to quit.
”

“A week’s pay says the little cretin breaks his neck,” called out Major Walker.

Several takers came forward, but they would have done better to save their money, for at that moment another almighty cheer rose from the uniformed men packed in around the picket rope. The palomino had allowed the boy to mount up and, for no reason that anyone could think of, was walking calmly and agreeably around the arena, as if competing for the title best-trained animal in the circus. In a few seconds, urged by the boy’s knees, the horse had obligingly broken into a trot, tossing his head as he passed close to the rope, thoroughly approving the thunderous applause that met this lap of honor.

“Goddamn little shit!” Walker spat out. “It’s a damn trick, I tell you. He knew that horse all along, it’s a goddamn trick. They planned the entire thing to dupe us.”

“No trick, Captain, the boy knows how to ride, how to earn a horse’s trust,” Van Allen said. “As any good horseman will tell you, that
is
no trick, sir,
that
is a gift from God. Besides, the animal evidently respects tenacity, as do I, sir.” The handsome captain was grinning as though his own son was upon the horse now trotting toward them. “Bravo, Jesse, bravo!” He applauded.

As Jesse and the horse reached the picket rope, they stopped before the division commander. Jesse had the horse move slowly toward the general, facing him. He touched the animal lightly with his knees so that he slightly reared and then the horse and rider made one motion, the horse’s head swung down with a bow, and the rider saluted. Then the animal leaned back on his haunches, front legs extended, and executed a kind of slow measured bow, dipping his head in a sweep and then lifting it to nod rapidly in honor of the Ohioan for whom he was performing. Jesse removed what remained of his kepi, swept it across his narrow waist, and bowed his curly red-gold head. Those who had not drifted away to greedily count their winnings or mumble in disgust at their unaccountable rashness stood there with open mouths, and Seth Cartwright stood there right along with them.

General Sherman chewed his cigar and gave the boy a narrow-eyed look as his hoarse voice exploded: “You
again
! Whenever there is trouble or excitement in this regiment why in
hell
do I find
you
at the center of it?”

Jesse grinned.

“What did I tell you, sir?” Captain Walker followed the division commander as he walked away. “You cannot persuade me that any vagabond alive can ride such a spirited animal after so brief an acquaintance. It is, sir, impossible, it is, sir, some kind of witchcraft, black magic—the boy has put some kind of spell on the horse.”

“You’re a sore loser, Cap’in Walker,” Jackson told him.

Sergeant O’Connor and a second teamster had placed a rope around the horse’s neck.

“What are you doing?” Jesse cried out, dismounting, “He’s mine! Captain Walker said I may keep him.”

“Away wid yer, yer little cuss.” O’Connor gave him a swipe around the head. “Horses is for officers’ use, not the likes a you, still wet behind der ears.”

“But no officer can ride him, sir,” insisted Jesse, hanging onto the horse’s neck, “no one else can ride him but me, you said yourself, Sergeant, no one else but me has ever stayed on his back.”

“Get away from here, I say, afore I cut yer liver up for the beast’s breakfast!” O’Connor produced a knife whose ten-inch blade gleamed in the April sunlight and seemed to settle the question of the horse’s ownership, at least for the present.

“We’ll ask General Sherman,” Jesse said and ran off to find him.

“Jesse!” Cartwright called, exasperated, for he had only just made his way from the throng of jostling men to reach the boy, and now the boy was off again. The surgeon followed, his medical case slung over his shoulder, banging against his back.

Jesse had not only reached the commander, but had overtaken him and was blocking his path. Sherman had no option but to stop. He looked at the boy standing there before him, sweat streaming down his red, grimy face; a face cut, bruised, and bleeding. One sleeve of his shirt was hanging away from the shoulder; the other was in shreds, the peak of his kepi, which was practically all that remained, clutched tightly in his hands.

Behind him, he heard Captain Jackson say, “Gall darn brass-neck a the boy.”

“You will have to pay for that uniform” was Sherman’s only comment.

“Yes sir. Forgive me, sir, but I undertook a wager with Captain Walker.” The boy tried to catch his breath, but nonetheless spoke assertively, boldly holding Sherman’s glowering stare. Beside him, Walker went pale as the boy pointed an accusing finger. “
This officer
declared, sir, in the presence of at least a dozen witnesses, that if I were but to remain on Quicksand’s back long enough to walk him around the corral, I could keep him as my own. Sir, will
you
now witness that I not only remained in the saddle but also trotted the horse, yet Sergeant O’Connor refuses to give me what is rightfully mine.”

“Sergeant O’Connor is correct, he cannot give you what does not belong to him but to the United States Army, and you, Private Davis, are too saucy by half, sir, too saucy by half!” Sherman shoved the cigar into the corner of his mouth and growled in Walker’s direction. “Did you tell this boy he could keep the horse if he fulfilled the challenge?” Beneath his shapeless slouch hat, his eyes had narrowed almost to slits.

“I may have intimated something of the kind, sir,” Walker mumbled evasively.

“Captain Walker, I ask again, sir,
did you tell the boy the horse was his if he fulfilled the challenge?
” Since there was no mistaking the anger in Sherman’s voice, Walker nodded slowly. “You, sir, are a knave. I know this boy, and despite his presumptuous, saucy manner, his gall-darn brass-neck, as my aide so succinctly puts it, he deserves far better treatment.”

“May I then keep the horse, sir?” Jesse asked excitedly, wiping away the sweat in his eyes with what remained of his sleeve.

“No, you may not; the horse is useless for a soldier. Any officer will tell you a horse of his distinctive coloring and highly strung character will get his rider picked off by a Rebel sharpshooter immediately after riding onto the field.”

“True,” Walker said philosophically.

“Shut
up
!” Sherman barked.

“But, sir, have I not earned the right to keep the animal? I did, after all, win the wager.”

“I do not approve of wagers, Private, whether they be sporting challenges or gambling.”

Jesse lowered his gaze, his lower lip quivering, not with tears but bitter disappointment.

The general gripped the boy’s face by his chin and tilted it upward. A wince of pain temporarily contorted the handsome features. A telltale purple shadow as large as an apple was beginning to emerge just where the division commander’s bony fingers were gripping, a deep cut ran horizontal to his right brow, and a patch of blood had crusted up around his left nostril.

Cartwright at last managed to push his way through the thinning crowd as Sherman was saying, “The injuries on your face will no doubt pale into insignificance compared to what Dr. Cartwright will find when he takes down your drawers.”

Everyone laughed, everyone but the doctor, who groaned as if the humiliation were all his own.

Sherman looked at him, at the shaving soap running down his face with the sweat. “Take this boy to your hospital and tend his hurts.”

“Sir, does this mean I cannot keep the horse?” Jesse demanded to know, digging in his heels as Cartwright tried to drag him away.

“I thought I had just finished telling you. In the infantry only officers ride horses. Are
you
an officer?”

“No sir.” The boy frowned.

“Do you expect to be commissioned one in the immediate future?”

“No sir, not the
immediate
future.”

Jackson and Van Allen laughed, right along with everyone else standing there. Cartwright was shaking his head, one hand over his bespectacled eyes, the other holding onto the boy.

“If you think it more romantic to go into battle on horseback, you should have joined the cavalry.” Sherman walked away.

“Sir,
you
are not in the cavalry!” called out the boy, finally breaking Cartwright’s grip and running after the commander.

Sherman expelled an irritated breath. The boy was trotting along just in front of him now, moving backward, trying to keep ahead of the fast-walking commander. “Sir, when…I become an officer…may I have Quicksand as my own?”