The Crossed Sabres (38 page)

Totally spent, Winslow lay on his back gasping for air. When he was able to breath, he rolled over and saw that Dr. Porter was working on Grayson. The firing was slackening off, and he got to his feet and looked over the rim in time to see the Indians withdraw.

“That was a real noble thing you did,” O’Hara said. “Next time you want to be a hero, give me a little warning, will you? I’ll try to be someplace else.”

Winslow grinned, reached over and struck his shoulder with his fist. “Thanks, Babe—and you, too, Leo,” he said. He turned and saw Grayson regarding him steadily, but the rescued man said nothing.

Just then Moylan and Major Reno came by. Reno nodded to Winslow. “That was a fine thing, Sergeant. I’ll see it’s written up.”

Moylan looked at the river. “They’ll be back,” he said soberly.

Benteen rode up and jumped out of the saddle, asking, “Where’s Custer?”

“I don’t know!” Reno snapped. “He was supposed to support me and—”

“He’s over there with his men, I think,” Moylan broke in, peering into the distance. “They’re in a real battle, I’d say. Do you think we’d better go help him?”

“We’re in big trouble ourselves, Moylan,” Reno said, clearly nettled. “Look around at what we have left. And the first thing in the morning, the hostiles will be coming at us with all they’ve got!”

Thirty minutes later, Lieutenant Weir asked permission to give Custer aid. Reno agreed, and Edgerly went along with his company in support. But Weir had gone only five hundred yards when he was savagely attacked and had to fight a retreat back to the crest.

“Now you see what it’s like!” Reno taunted him.

The Indians kept slashing at them, raising the number of fallen men discouragingly high. The officers brought them back behind the lines and cared for the wounded as best they could. Benteen paced back and forth, dodging the bullets that whistled close to him. There was no letup while the light lasted, but at eight o’clock the shadows fell.

Winslow was exhausted, but he knew better than to rest. He moved down the line, forcing the men to dig in, and finally began digging a trench for himself. Dr. Porter came along, took a look at him, and said, “Let me see that wound.”

“Just a nick,” Winslow shrugged. In the heat of the action, he’d forgotten that he’d been slashed by a knife. He pulled off his shirt, and Porter bound the arm. “How’s Grayson, Doctor?” he asked.

“He’ll be all right, I think. Flesh wound in the leg, and the one in the body bounced off a rib. He said to tell you to come and see him.” The doctor looked out over the dark parapet of the crest. “It’s going to be a near thing, Sergeant. Lucky if any of us get out alive.”

“Yes. Keep your head down, Doctor.”

When Porter left, Winslow finished his trench, then went to the area where the wounded lay. The night was dark, and he didn’t see Grayson at first; then he heard him say, “Over here, Winslow.”

Stumbling over some loose rock, Winslow moved toward the sound and found Grayson with his back against a small sapling.

“Why’d you do it?” Grayson asked.

Winslow’s legs were weak, and he sat down. “You want some water?” he asked, ignoring the question.

“Had some. There isn’t much.” Grayson’s voice was thin and reedy. “Porter said I’d make it, but we’re not out of this thing yet. I may die—or you may.”

“They’ll be here early, I guess.”

“Where’s Custer?”

“I think he’s dead. I think those who were with him are all dead.”

Grayson was silent for a while, then said, “Tell me why you came for me.”

Winslow was so tired he could hardly speak. He looked at the man who had done him so much wrong, and was astounded to realize that none of the hate was left. He had lived with it so long, he felt incomplete in a way.

“I can’t tell you, Spence,” he replied. “But I know I can never hate a man who was with me today in this fight.” He thought about it but could find no logical explanation for his change of heart. Finally he shrugged. “I guess I came for you because I couldn’t stand the thought of carrying that load of hate I’ve had for another thirty or forty years.”

Neither one said anything for a long time. Finally Grayson broke the silence. “I can’t understand it, Tom.”

“Well, I can’t either, Spence.” He got to his feet painfully.

“Good luck in the morning,” Grayson said.

“We’ll make it, both of us,” Winslow replied, then returned to the battle line. He dropped down, expecting to fall asleep
at once, but his body ached with fatigue, his mind was dazed and confused, and sleep eluded him. For twenty minutes he lay there thinking of the strangeness of it all—especially his behavior toward Spence Grayson.

All the hate was gone, he knew, and he marveled. He couldn’t see how risking his life for Grayson could purge him of the bitterness that had controlled his life for ten years. He closed his eyes, and as he did, a thought came to him so unexpectedly and so powerfully that he could not sleep.
I’ve been afraid to call on God because I knew it was useless. But the hate for Spence is gone—there’s nothing to prevent me from calling on God now.

The idea surprised him, in a way. He thought of his past and his future—both grim and bleak. It wasn’t enough for him to be free of his hatred of Grayson, he realized.
I’ve got to have something to tie to!

For a long time he lay there wondering how to come to God. Finally a sense of desperation swept over him, and he whispered, “Oh, God, I need you! There’s nothing I can do to wipe out all the bad years—nothing I can do to make myself better. So I’m doing what my mother asked me to do . . .and what Faith asked me to do. I’m asking you to forgive my sins . . .and to save me from the man I am . . .and I ask it in the name of Jesus!”

When he said this, he slumped down and his muscles relaxed. He kept repeating: “In the name of Jesus . . .in the name of Jesus.” Then he fell fast asleep. There was no great explosion of feeling such as he’d observed in others at camp meetings.

For Tom Winslow, coming to God was like a child, exhausted and worn out, falling into the loving arms of a strong parent. And even as he dropped off he thought with surprise,
Why, this is what I’ve been longing for all my life!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

An End—and a Beginning

On the third day of July, the
Far West
blew its whistle for the landing at Fort Abraham Lincoln and, with its jack staff black-draped and its flag at half-mast, touched shore. A runner went out immediately with the news; and in the middle of the night, officers reluctantly walked toward Officers’ Row to notify the wives of the dead. The wounded were carried to the post infirmary.

Two days earlier Faith Jamison had come in from the mission to buy supplies, but the Owens had persuaded her to stay over for a performance by a group of Shakespearian actors. Laurie had asked Faith to take her, and the two had enjoyed the play. It was nearly ten by the time they returned to Eileen’s, and Faith was invited to stay for the night.

Laurie went to bed at once. Fifteen minutes later the blast of the steamer’s whistle cut through the air. “That’s not the ferry,” Eileen commented. “I wonder if it’s new troops coming in.” Eileen and Faith were drinking hot tea in the kitchen as they discussed Laurie’s progress with her books. Ten minutes later they heard the sound of activity, of horses moving down Officers’ Row, and they hurried out to the porch. Through the dim light Eileen recognized the form of Major Bradford, who was in charge of the fort during Custer’s absence.

“Major, what’s happening?” she called out.

Bradford guided his horse closer and said in a muted voice, “It’s the
Far West
bringing in the wounded.”

The women stood with bated breath, hardly daring to
speak. Faith finally broached the fearful question. “There’s been a battle, Major?”

“I’m afraid so,” Bradford replied, tempering his fidgety horse. “It’s not good news, either. The Seventh took a terrible defeat.” His voice carried the grief he felt. “I must go to Mrs. Custer.”

“Is the general wounded?” Eileen asked in a tight voice.

“He’s dead . . .and so are half his command!”

“No!” Eileen cried in horror, and rushed inside, her face in her hands.

Bradford said to Faith, “She’s thinking of the time her husband was killed.” Then he touched his hat and lifted the reins. “I must carry the news to Mrs. Custer.”

As Major Bradford moved down the line of houses, Faith hurried in to Eileen.

“Oh, Faith!” she cried as she paced the floor. “They’re all killed! Oh, my God—” She began to sway, and Faith caught her and helped her to the couch, where she slumped down and began to sob.

Faith held her, unable to find the right words to say. Finally when the sobs lessened, she asked, “Are you all right, Eileen?”

“All right! How can anybody be all right in this place?” Her eyes were stark with hopelessness. “I can’t go through it again, Faith!”

Faith knew she was thinking of Winslow. “I’ll go to the infirmary. Tom may be there.”

“No, he’s dead! I know he is!”

“You don’t know,” Faith said. “I’ll be back shortly.” She rose and headed for the hospital. Dr. Long was directing his orderlies as they prepared to receive the wounded. Long was a Christian who had often come to the mission to treat the Indians for various ailments. When he saw Faith he said, “What a terrible thing!”

“Have you heard any details, Doctor?”

“Just that the regiment was decimated—nearly four hundred killed, including the general. Many wounded, of course.”

“I’d like to help if I could.”

“We will need all the nursing help we can get, Faith,” Long said, his face showing the compassion he felt. “Let me show you where things are.” He gave her a quick tour of the facility, and soon the first ambulance arrived. The orderlies carried the men in and laid them on the beds, and Dr. Long went to work.

Faith helped the orderlies get the bandages and drugs to the doctor. Dr. Porter arrived with the second group. Soon the two doctors were doing surgery that could not be attempted on the field. Time passed swiftly as they worked. The infirmary was receiving more patients than it could hold, so the less serious cases were taken to one of the barracks, temporarily utilized as a hospital.

As Faith passed down the line of bunks with fresh water for the men, she heard her name called. She turned to see Spence Grayson watching her from a lower bunk. “Spence! I didn’t know you were here,” she said, noting the bandages on his chest and leg. She filled the glass on the table beside him and sat down while he gulped the water down. “Tastes good,” he said in a thin, raspy voice. “I don’t think I’ll ever take a drink of water for granted again.”

“Are you badly hurt?”

“No. I was lucky.” He was unshaved and gaunt, his eyes sunk back in his head. But he seemed alert, and when she put her hand on his forehead, there was no sign of fever.

“I’ve prayed for you,” Faith said simply.

He gave her a sober glance, then nodded slowly. “I can believe that. I said I was lucky, but it was more than that, Faith.”

“Do you feel like talking?”

“Sure,” he said, dragging himself to a sitting position. “I’m sick of lying flat on my back.” She helped him get comfortable. Then he continued. “It was bad, Faith. All those men dead!”

“How could it happen?”

He related some of the events, and although she didn’t
understand the technical aspects of the battle, she quickly grasped the source of the defeat and said, “Custer didn’t obey his orders, to wait for General Gibbon?”

“That’s right. And that was a mistake—a big one.” He sipped the water, then paused, his brow wrinkling. “He divided the regiment into three parts, and that was another mistake.”

“If you’d waited for Gibbon and if Custer hadn’t split the group, would it have been different?”

“No. I don’t think so. There were just too many Indians.”

Faith sat there, saddened by the catastrophe. Finally she asked, “Where were you when you were wounded, Spence?”

“I was with Reno. When we got swarmed by the Sioux and had to retreat. It was a rout! Lots of men were shot in that action. There was a hill to our right, and we crossed the river and started up the slope. I got hit in the side. The slug knocked me off my horse, and when I got up to try to run, I caught another one in my leg. I began to crawl as fast as I could.”

“How awful!”

“It was pretty bad,” Grayson admitted, reliving the moment. “Men were dropping all around me, and when I looked back and saw a lot of the Sioux coming across the river, I gave up.”

“It must have been frightening!”

Grayson brushed his forehead with a shaky hand. “All my life I’ve heard that when a man comes to die, his whole life flashes before him.” He pursed his lips. “Always believed that was just an old wives’ tale. But I got a taste of it.” His eyes were sober. “There I was, bleeding my life out with a crew of battle-crazed Sioux coming to finish me off—and I thought about the sorry mess I’d made of my life!”

From down the room a scream rent the air, cutting across the hum of conversation; and both of them glanced involuntarily to where Dr. Porter was bending over a young trooper with one leg gone at the knee. Porter called out sharply to
an orderly, “Help me hold him down, Johnson!” The patient thrashed out in his delirium. Faith turned away, her eyes filled with pity.

Grayson looked at her, then went on speaking. “You might like to know, Faith, that I thought about God.” His gaunt face was broken into sharp planes from the ordeal. “Haven’t done that in years, but I did then.”

“What did you think, Spence?”

“Why, I wanted to call out to Him for help, but I’ve always despised men who lived like the devil all their lives, then when they came to die, tried to make it up to God.”

“I don’t think that’s quite right,” Faith said thoughtfully. “People seek God out of desperation. Some of us get desperate enough in the ordinary times. Sometimes people become hard and shut God out. But if at the time of death a person finally knows that he needs God, I think God wants to listen to him, to help him.”