Theodora took off her wide-brimmed hat and waved it slowly back and forth in front of her face. She never took her gaze off O’Fallon’s haunted blue eyes.
“Go on, Sergeant,” Peter encouraged. “I’ve heard about the tragic campaign, but never from an actual participant.”
The burly man shook his head in sorrow. “Heaven forgive him, the general was allowing the men to drink from filthy buffalo wallows, despite Lieutenant Roberts’s repeated warnings. The green, stagnant water was never boiled or purified. An epidemic of bilious fever broke out among the men, and half the command became sick with dysentery and typhus. Colonel Henry Dodge continued onward, leading the surviving two hundred dragoons out of the original five hundred, including myself and Roberts and Wesley Fletcher, while Lieutenant Colonel Kearny stayed behind to guard the baggage and the invalids. We went into Comanche country up by the Canadian River and parlayed with the Kiowas and the Pawnees. Now then, the Comanch were another story, for they hated all Americans. But we visited a village and, with Blade’s knowledge of Indians, managed to free a captive white boy and a black slave. By the time we made it safely back to Fort Gibson, one third of the dragoons were dead.”
“Good Lord!” Peter exclaimed. “And all from drinking contaminated water!”
“That’s right, boyo. Blade had tried to warn the men, but they’d ignored him. What did a young officer straight from the Point know about traveling across the plains? they asked. Faith, he was trying to tell them he’d been raised a Cheyenne. But Lieutenant Fletcher, in his jealousy of the half-breed, convinced the men to pay no attention to Blade’s warnings.”
O’Fallon crushed his forage cap in his large hand. His deep, gravelly voice was filled with misery. “General Leavenworth died on the plains along with the rest. The only one left to lead was Dodge, and him deathly ill, and suffering mightily over the staggering loss of lives. In his delirium he remembered that Roberts had been trying to warn him, but not Fletcher’s scoundrelly behavior.”
“The bastard!” Peter doubled his fists in anger, then looked guilty as he realized he’d sworn in front of a lady. “Sorry, Teddy,” he apologized, and a flush colored his tanned cheeks.
“So that’s why Captain Roberts insisted I promise not to drink anything until he’d checked it,” Theodora said, half to herself. She rose. “And I thought he was insensitive about Tom’s death. And the loss of the trooper.”
“Far from it, mavourneen. He’s bitterly regretting your brother’s death, and blaming himself for it, I’ve no doubt.” O’Fallon moved toward the horses. “I know for a fact that the captain vowed he’d never have such terrible losses on any expedition he was in charge of. As for Pilcher, bless us and save us, it was a case of putting the good of the greatest number first. It was a decision he had to make, and the captain faces his responsibilities, that much I’m telling you.”
“I always wondered why Blade and Fetcher hated each other.” Peter whistled. “No wonder!”
O’Fallon shook his head. “The bad feelings between those two go back farther than that. All the way back to West Point. And neither one has ever said a word about it. I don’t think even Zeke knows, and he’s known the captain since he was a boy. But they’ll settle it between them before this trip is over, I’m thinking.”
The three fossil hunters didn’t go back to camp empty handed. They discovered an old, gray bone in the red earth and showed it with excitement to the captain on their return. Lifting it gently, Blade brushed the soft clay off the fossil with his fingertips, then blew on it to remove the last particles of dust. “Unless I miss my guess, this is the jawbone of a Titanothere.” He carefully handed the specimen back to Theodora.
All of the men were enthralled with the bone that might be thousands of years old.
“What kind of an animal was it?” Calvin Belknap asked in awe. “Don’t look like any jawbone I ever saw.”
Perched on her upturned wooden crate, Theodora held the fossil carefully in her lap while everyone crowded around her, trying to get a peek. “Titanotheres were wooly mammoths that once roamed the plains,” she explained.
“Now that’s one explanation, Miss Gordon.” Blade smiled, his white teeth flashing in humor. He pushed his hat back on his dark head, and the gold hoop in his ear flashed in the sun. “My grandfather, Chief Painted Robe, told me how the Cheyenne found this kind of bone many years ago. My people decided that the huge relics belonged to fierce beasts that came down to earth during a terrible storm, when the lightning and thunder crashed over these bluffs above the Platte. The thunder horse chased the giant beasts from the sky, and they stampeded in terror, plunging to their deaths over the cliffs.”
Theodora smiled at the unique tale. “That might be as good an explanation as any, Captain Roberts. And it’s certainly more colorful than mine.”
Chapter 12
“Y’all right, Miz Gordon?” Lieutenant Fletcher asked with concern.
Daydreaming, Theodora barely heard his question. The Southerner had wasted no time in joining her after Peter rode to the head of the column to consult with Roberts. Though she’d not spoken a word to encourage Fletcher, he’d been riding beside her for over an hour.
Inattentive to his solicitude, Theodora gazed at the mountains in the distance and longed for the coolness of their forests. The sun beat down on her with all its July intensity, and the land around them appeared more inhospitable than ever. She longed for a cooling rain, for the shelter of dark clouds. Blinking back the tears that threatened to fall, she squeezed her eyelids closed. She yearned for more than just a change in the weather. She wished desperately that she were back home in the sleepy village of Cambridge, surrounded by her friends and neighbors. How she would love to see the verdant hills of the New England countryside once more.
“Y’ all right, Miz Gordon?” Wesley Fletcher questioned for the second time, and the sharp edge to his voice cut through her reverie.
She looked at the handsome officer, then back to the distant vista, and sighed. “I’m fine, Lieutenant. Just hot. And tired.” She wondered how he always managed to look so neat—the epitome of the dashing cavalry officer in his blue shell jacket and blue trousers with their yellow stripes. Attired in her cotton blouse and split buckskin skirt, she was moist from perspiration. She’d piled her long hair atop her head and fastened it with combs, hoping her hat would keep it in place. During the morning’s ride, damp tendrils had come loose and stuck to her neck.
She glanced at Fletcher once again from under her lashes, not wishing to call his attention to her scrutiny. Since her talk with Sergeant O’Fallon and Peter the previous afternoon, she’d reviewed Fletcher’s past conversations with an increased awareness. The soft-spoken Georgian had never given her any cause to doubt his courage or his character. Yet despite his impeccable attire and his courtly solicitude, there was something about him that she didn’t quite like or trust.
“Do you think we’ll make it safely to our destination?” she asked, trying to prod him into revealing his inner thoughts.
Fletcher’s blond head snapped up. He glanced at her speculatively. “No, I don’t, Miz Gordon. I think we’ll lose a lot more men before the journey’s up, and we’ll ultimately have t’ abandon the idea of goin’ all the way t’ California.”
His pessimism surprised her. “Why do you say that, Lieutenant? Don’t you believe it’s our country’s destiny to spread from one ocean to the other?”
Fletcher untied his scarf and dabbed at the beads of sweat above his golden mustache. “Oh, I do, Miz Gordon. I believe in manifest destiny—that eventually the United States will stretch from shore t’ shore. But I think we’re doomed t’ failure this time. For one thing, I don’t believe our illustrious captain intends t’ lead us all the way t’ the Pacific Ocean. It’s my belief that Roberts will do everything in his power t’ see that we turn back in failure.”
“Why on earth would he do that, Lieutenant?” Theodora found his accusation incredible. “The responsibility of t
his whole pilgrimage is in his hands. Why would he plan its ruin?” Fletcher smiled, his pale eyes glinting like silver mirrors in the sun. “Because the success of this expedition would spell the destruction of Blade Roberts’s people. Of their whole way of life. Right now, the Plains Indians run free from Canada t’ Mexico. Their nomadic ways will inevitably come t’ an end if white men invade the prairies.”
“Surely not, Lieutenant. Why, there’s more land out here than could ever be used. Besides, the white man would only ride across it to reach the Pacific shores. No one but the Indians could actually survive in the middle of this forsaken wilderness.”
“Trappers live out here, Miz Gordon. The very trail we’re takin’ is one the early mountain men followed t’ reach the beaver. And they followed the Indian huntin’ trails laid down before them. But the changes the French trappers brought with them will be minor compared t’ what the influx of large numbers of white folk will bring. And our half-breed captain wouldn’t want t’ see that, I assure y’.”
Fletcher’s words made her shift uncomfortably in the saddle. She had no idea what went on under the captain’s thatch of sloe-black hair or in his half-Indian heart, but she’d witnessed his bravery and leadership firsthand. No coward could have marked the ford at the South Platte, nor would the men have followed a craven across its dangerous quicksand bottom. The mountain men and soldiers alike had accepted Blade’s decision to continue without the missing trooper. No one questioned his authority, except herself and Fletcher. And although the golden-haired lieutenant made a grand display of his fine Southern manners and his gentleman’s code of honor, it was Blade who’d risked his own life to nurse Tom. During that long, horrible night, Fletcher hadn’t come near them. Despite the harsh words of condemnation she’d written daily in her diary, accusing the captain of cruel mistreatment, if her life were threatened at that moment, she wasn’t certain to which man she’d turn for help.
With a sigh Theodora decided to steer the conversation into safer waters and asked Fletcher about his early childhood on his family’s plantation. It was a topic the lieutenant loved to talk about, and the subject of Blade Roberts was dropped, at least temporarily.
The caravan could easily make twenty-five miles a day now, with only a short rest during the noon hour. They were all becoming hardened veterans of the trail. As they left Chimney Rock behind, the terrain grew rough, and in the light spring wagon Julius Twiggs took a terrible jolting. They reached Scott’s Bluff early that afternoon. From a distance, the bluff had looked like a fortress guarding the plains, but when they approached it, they found it was an enormous yellow boulder of marl, covered with dwarf cedar and shrubs. The column of dragoons was forced to climb into the uplands, for the escarpment reached the river, and the ravines around the bluff made the route nearly impassable for the wagon. Two hundred yards below was the water. After days of camping without wood in sight, the weary entourage was fascinated to see small stands of Rocky Mountain juniper.
The orders to make camp had just been given, and the daily unpacking begun, when shouts arose from a cluster of soldiers at the north edge of the campsite.
A trooper placed his hands on either side of his mouth and hollered across the bivouac, “Hey Captain! Found somethin’ over here! You’d best take a look.”
Theodora was working with Julius at the back of the wagon, setting out the kettles and cooking utensils, when the shout rang out. The soldiers near the picket lines milled toward the stand of cedar and the cluster of men quickly blocked her view. Curious, she started to walk toward the commotion.
“Haintzelman, see to the lady!“Blade shouted as he hurried across the dusty campground. Peter loped over to her from the nearly silent crowd of men.
From its center Private Belknap bolted and ran to the base of a juniper tree on the outskirts of the camp, where he knelt on his knees and vomited. He placed his hands on the ground and retched uncontrollably, his body convulsed with deep shudders.
“Stay here with me, Teddy,” Peter insisted. He took hold of her elbow and pulled her in the opposite direction.
“What is it, Peter?” She could sense the nervousness of the men, although they spoke so low she couldn’t make out a word they were saying.
“It’s the missing trooper. They’ve found him.” Behind his glasses, Peter’s blue eyes revealed the horror he was trying so hard to conceal.
“Is he dead?” Theodora asked, but she already knew the answer.
“Yes.”
When she tried to pull away from his grasp and go over to the hushed group, the lieutenant shook his head and continued to steer her out of earshot of the soldiers. “It’s not a pretty sight, Teddy. He was tortured.”
Theodora’s heart slammed against her chest at his words. Her hand flew to her throat. The revulsion in Peter’s voice told her as clearly as if she’d viewed the corpse that the trooper’s death had been unbelievably brutal. Dazed, she turned and stared at Belknap’s back, still racked with spasms. “Why? Why would they do that to a defenseless man?”
“They have no compassion for anyone taken prisoner.” Peter’s brow knitted in dismay. “It’s the one thing about the Plains Indians I can’t understand, Teddy!”
Although Peter steadfastly refused to discuss the death of Private Pilcher with Theodora any further, Lieutenant Fletcher was not so fastidious. That afternoon, he described to her in grisly detail the inhuman suffering that the dragoon had been forced to endure, until finally she had to cover her ears with her hands.
“I’m tellin’ y’ this for your own sake, Miz Gordon,” he assured her, as he took her hands from her head and held them down in front of her. “Y’ need t’ understand the thinkin’ of the Indians. What they’re capable of doin’ with no more twinge of conscience than if they were helpin’ their neighbors at a barn raisin’. The savages will execute a prisoner in a vile, sadistic manner, prolongin’ his agony. It’s just part of their way of life. The monsters are brought up like that from infancy. Even the women and children participate in the butcherin’ of their captives. They actually enjoy it. And they never change no matter where they go, no matter what else they become.” Unable to listen to more, Theodora broke free. She ran to her tent and sat alone in its dim recesses for the rest of the afternoon, seeing in her mind the bloody, broken corpse of the lost private. Bit by bit, the vision changed, until it was Tom’s body, not Pilcher’s, that she saw hacked into pieces and scattered across the open-prairie. In a split second’s revelation she knew why Blade had ordered the troop to ride across her brother’s grave. Blade understood their inhuman customs. He knew that Tom’s body might be dug up and mutilated. Had that happened? Dear God, how could she endure even suspecting such a thing?
The soldiers wrapped Enoch Pilcher’s body in canvas and buried him in the soft clay. Theodora had not been allowed to see his corpse, nor had she wanted to. The tears that had poured at Tom’s burial didn’t come. She watched the brief ceremony with dry eyes, numb to all feeling except one. Loathing. Loathing for this savage country and its equally barbarous inhabitants. When she looked at Blade Roberts, she didn’t see him in his buckskin shirt and breeches. In her mind she saw him bare-chested, his powerful legs in cut-off pants. Her imagination enhanced the gold earring he wore to an armlet of Indian beads, a headband with its eagle’s feather, a necklace of wild animal teeth. Mentally, she dressed him in the clothes of a Plains warrior—the costume he really belonged in—and placed in one hand a dripping scalp; in the other, a razor-sharp hunting knife like the one that was used to torture Private Pilcher.
That evening the men were nervous and excitable. The travelers were only one day away from Fort Laramie, and their hopes of reaching its safety without incident had been dashed. Conyers and Blade concurred that the murder had been committed by Gros Ventre warriors. The sentries were doubled. Around the campfires each man cleaned and checked his weapon.
In the captain’s tent Theodora bent over the map table, trying to block out all thought of the aft
ernoon’s horror. Her fingers trembled as she worked, despite her brave attempt to control her shattered emotions, and she splotched the parchment in front of her.
“Oh, drat,” she muttered. She blotted the ink with a cloth in her shaking hand. “I guess I’m a little nervous tonight,” she apologized, as she glanced up at Blade beside her. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember how he’d appeared in his full-dress cavalry uniform back at Fort Leavenworth the night of the farewell ball. Was that really just five weeks ago? she asked herself in disbelief.
When she opened her eyes again, the genuine concern in Blade’s gaze disturbed her, making her feel confused and ashamed. His deep voice was filled with kindness. “The Gros Ventres are miles away from here by now, Miss Gordon. The signs indicated only a small hunting party. They won’t attack a camp of armed men, fully alert and ready for them.”
“I’m sure you can predict those savages better than most men, Captain Roberts,” Theodora blurted out, and they both knew the bitter words she’d left unspoken: Because you’re one of them.
Bending over her, Blade reached out as though to bridge the widening chasm between them. “Theodora, don’t convict me of Pilcher’s murder. I’m not—
She jerked away before his fingers reached her. “Don’t touch me,” she gasped, her breath coming fast. She stepped back and flung up her hands, as if to ward off a demon. “Please just don’t touch me.”
“Then don’t look at me with fear in your eyes,” he ordered curtly. He straightened his broad shoulders and stared down from his full height. A muscle tightened in his stubborn jaw. He had never appeared so proud and aloof. Anger edged his sharp words. “I’m not a savage, Miss Gordon.”
Cherish the Dream Page 18