“Well, dammit, don’t pull the trigger!” His first reaction was one of disgust. After all, he was risking his neck to save the man. It wouldn’t do for him to get shot for his trouble. “I coulda just left you out here to die.”
“What’s your name, soldier? How do I know you’re not a damned Reb?”
“Well, if that don’t beat all. You know I ain’t a Reb because I said I ain’t a Reb.” His patience was wearing thin. “I’m Private Thomas Allred of the Second Missouri Volunteers and I don’t aim to spend no more time jawing out here in this damn cornfield. You coming or not?”
He heard the officer chuckle softly before answering. “I’m ready, Private. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The wounded man had taken miniballs in both legs so Tom had to get him up on piggyback. It was a struggle because the officer had some bulk to him and he was in a great deal of pain. Tom feared the man might cry out as he strained to pull him up on his back. After considerable effort, he managed to get him up with his arms around his neck and his legs locked around his hips.
The going was rough, trying to walk through the soft dirt of the dark cornfield, and soon Tom forgot all thoughts of being heard by the Rebs. It was all he could do to keep walking without stumbling under the weight of his burden. Once he almost fell over the body of a dead soldier, Union or Rebel, he couldn’t tell in the dark. After that he kept his head down in an effort to see where he was placing each foot. So concerned was he in staying up under his load that he didn’t see the other man until they almost collided in the dark. They both swore and excused themselves when they discovered that both were carrying a wounded man on their backs. It didn’t occur to Tom until they had gone their opposite ways that the man was a Reb. It was ironic, he thought. There had been no thought of killing each other, just a polite “Excuse me,” and on about their business. “Helluva war,” he muttered to himself while shifting his load for a better hold. If the officer he was carrying thought anything about the encounter, he didn’t comment.
He walked through half of that night, only stopping twice to rest his aching back, before reaching Union pickets and his regiment. The officer was rushed to a field hospital in the back of a wagon and Tom was given a hot meal and a place to sleep before returning to his company the next morning. He was told that the officer he had rescued was Captain Winston Thrasher, one of General Grant’s favorite cavalry commanders, and the general had thought him lost for sure. Tom was not to know until months later that this single incident on the fourth of July, 1863, was a crossroads in his life and was to change the course of his destiny. Captain Winston Thrasher was not a man to let an act of gallantry go unrewarded. His wounds, suffered on that sweltering July afternoon, were painful but not debilitating, and allowed him to be returned to duty after two months in a Union hospital. One of the first orders he issued, after resuming command of his company with the new rank of major, was to find Private Thomas Allred.
* * *
“Well, I see that it’s Sergeant Allred now.”
“Yessir,” Tom replied, aware that the new stripes stood out against the faded blue army-issue shirt. “Most of my squad got wiped out at Vicksburg, including Sergeant Weathers. So I guess they had to stick these stripes on somebody.”
“So they stuck ’em on you.”
“Yessir.”
There was a moment of silence while the two men looked at each other, Major Thrasher pausing to choose his words, Tom waiting to receive the thanks he assumed was coming. There couldn’t be any other reason for him to be summoned to report to an officer in a different branch of the army.
“I never really got the chance to thank you for risking your neck to pull my bacon out of the fire that night.” He paused for a moment. “I want to do that now.”
“No need for thanks, sir.” Tom grinned. “You’d probably have done the same for me.”
“Yes,” he answered matter-of-factly, “I would have. But a lot of men wouldn’t.”
Tom shrugged, not knowing what more to say. “Well, you’re welcome, sir,” he finally stammered and prepared to leave. “Is that all, sir?”
“One more thing. How would you like to spend the rest of this war sitting down instead of walking?”
“Sir?”
“Let me put it this way,” the major stated as he pushed his camp stool back to give him room to stretch his legs. “Damn legs still get stiff as hell,” he explained before continuing. “You’re a damn good soldier, Allred. You obviously don’t scare easily. I’ve seen evidence of that firsthand and evidently somebody else thinks so too, or you wouldn’t have those stripes on your arm.” He interrupted his thoughts with a question, “How old are you, anyway?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Jesus Christ! I thought you were older than that. You look older than that.” He thought about it for a moment. “Hell, I guess in this damn war everybody looks older than they are. No matter, eighteen or eighty, like I said, you’re a damn good soldier and I need good soldiers. How’d you like to transfer to the cavalry?”
Tom hadn’t expected this. He had to think about it for a long moment. He was a city boy, and had never been on a horse in his life. Still, the thought of riding through the war instead of walking did have a certain amount of appeal. Deep down inside himself he had to admit that a memory still lingered, a slight shiver of emotion that traveled the length of his spine when he had witnessed the charge of Major Thrasher’s cavalry into that cornfield. True, they had been turned back. Still, even in defeat, they had seemed glorious to the young infantry private lying in the muddy ditch.
“Sir, I ain’t ever been on a horse before.”
The major looked surprised at this. He more or less took it for granted that every man had ridden a horse at some time in his life. But he gave it no more than a moment’s concern before he shrugged and said, “Well, that won’t be any problem. You can learn.” He paused. “You aren’t afraid of horses are you?”
“No sir. I just don’t know nothing about ’em.”
Major Thrasher looked relieved. “It’s not important. You’ll be riding like an old trooper in no time.” He brushed it aside. “What’s important is that you’ve got the makings of a damn good soldier, the kind of soldier I want riding with me.” He drew his legs back up under him and leaned forward, looking Tom straight in the eye. “How about it, Allred? You ready to ride to glory and honor with me?”
“Well, yessir. I reckon I am,” he blurted.
“Fine! Damn fine!” The major stood up, indicating an end to the interview. “I’ve already had orders cut on you. You can just go back and pick up your personal things and report back here in the morning to Lieutenant Matheson. You’ll be in his company.”
“Yessir,” was all Tom could reply. He was overwhelmed by the suddenness with which he had been transferred from the infantry to the cavalry. He was to learn later on that any of General Grant’s favorite cavalry officers could get pretty much anything they desired when it came to improving their units.
Right after reveille the following morning, a somewhat bewildered ex-infantry sergeant reported to Lieutenant Matheson. Feeling lost and out of place in the confusion of a full troop of cavalry preparing to move out on a campaign, it took Tom most of the morning just to find him. At first the lieutenant looked as bewildered as Tom felt when the young sergeant handed him a copy of his orders. It seemed that in the busy process of breaking camp, Major Thrasher had neglected to inform his lieutenant of the addition to his muster. Matheson, however, being a patient man and not one to confound easily, took it in stride and told Tom to go down and pick out a mount for himself after getting his tack from the quartermaster. He wasn’t even overly vexed when Tom admitted that he didn’t know what tack was, let alone have any notion about how to pick out a horse. Matheson simply sighed, looked at his new man for a moment, then sent for a corporal to take Tom in hand. An hour later, Major Winston Thrasher’s newest horse soldier sat nervously on a strawberry roan named Pokey, h
is knees trembling as they tried to grip the horse’s sides, wondering what he would do if the animal suddenly decided to rid itself of its burden.
* * *
A lot of water had passed under a lot of bridges since that July day in Vicksburg. It seemed like eons to Tom. In fact, it was only two years. But the two years of war was like ten normal years. Friendships were made and forgotten. Men who were boys when they signed up were old men of twenty and twenty-one after two years of battles in little, seemingly insignificant churchyards and crossroads between Chattanooga and Atlanta. General Grant had been ordered to replace General Rosecrans in an effort to find someone who could chase Braxton Bragg out of Chattanooga. Naturally, Grant took Winston Thrasher with him on the campaign, so young Thomas Allred learned to ride a horse on his way to Tennessee.
Stretched out comfortably on a train headed for Fort Riley, Tom smiled to himself when he remembered that horse. Pokey—it was a good name for the animal. Whoever gave him that name must have known the beast well. He was slow, but at the time, Tom was thankful for Pokey’s reluctance to get excited. The horse was too lazy to buck, which was probably the sole reason Tom was able to stick on him all the way to Chattanooga. No one had warned him about the sore behind and the other assorted aches and pains a greenhorn could expect after sitting on a horse for twelve hours a day, days on end. After the first two days, Tom thought he would never be able to straighten up again. He was too sore to ride and too stiff to walk. There was no choice but to gut it out, so gut it out he did . . . and in silence.
He knew the other men were amused by his ordeal, having suffered it themselves at one time or another, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing him complain. So he and Pokey limped to Chattanooga, and by the time their journey was finished, Tom could manage him pretty well. He still found himself holding on to the saddle with one hand during a gallop but at least he didn’t fall off when he participated in their first encounter with Confederate cavalry. He made it through that first skirmish unscathed, but Pokey didn’t. The poor old nag was shot out from under him near Lookout Mountain when their patrol was ambushed while foraging for food. It was Tom’s coolness under fire that caused him to be awarded another stripe on his sleeve when a rebel rifle ball created that vacancy. After his horse went down, Tom directed an attack on the line of Rebel riflemen forming the ambush and led the assault on foot until his mounted comrades overtook him and routed the Confederate troops.
The rythmic click, click, click of the wheels on the steel rails served to lull him into a near dreamlike state. His mind relaxed, permitting him to think back and reflect on the events that had so recently reshaped his life. In his brief military career, he had already earned a reputation as a fearless soldier who held no regard for his own personal safety. Thinking about it now, he really had no explanation as to why he felt no sense of fear when in the heat of battle. He harbored no notions that he was a hero. When the rifles were popping and the cannons were roaring, it was just too busy to think about anything but doing your job. There was just no time to be afraid.
He allowed his mind to drift back and take inventory of his accomplishments since transferring to the cavalry unit. A great deal had happened. Lieutenant Matheson took a rifle ball at Kennesaw Mountain and his command was taken over by a strapping man from Maryland named John Shirey. Lieutenant Shirey was an ex-schoolteacher from Baltimore. He may have been an able officer, Tom couldn’t say. Shirey was lost to the company before they saw their first action under his command. He came down with dysentery and was sent back to a hospital in the rear. Major Thrasher appointed Tom temporary platoon leader.
By this time, General Grant had taken over command of the Army of the Potomac and General Sherman was directing the campaign against Atlanta. At Kennesaw Mountain, Thrasher was promoted to colonel and, by his recommendation, Tom was awarded a battlefield commission to second lieutentant. His only regret, as he now sat on a westbound train, was that he never got to see Atlanta. There had been so much talk about the siege of that seat of Southern pride that he had built up a sizable curiosity to see the city. He never did, for after Kennesaw Mountain, Colonel Thrasher was transferred to General Grant’s command at the general’s request. In the short time Tom had served under Winston Thrasher, the colonel had come to appreciate the efficiency, as well as the bravery, with which the young lieutenant performed his duties. For that reason, and because Tom had carried him out of that cornfield, Thrasher did one last favor for Tom the night before leaving to join General Grant’s staff. As he sat there with his eyes closed, he replayed the scene in his mind.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“Yes, Tom, come on in.” He picked up a pile of papers resting on a camp stool and placed them on the floor of the tent. “Sit down, sit down.”
Tom settled himself on the tiny stool. “You all ready to go, sir?”
“Just about. Listen, Tom, the reason I wanted to talk to you . . .” he started, then paused to reframe his words. “Let me put it this way.” He paused again. “You’ve been a damn good officer and I’m sure you’ll continue to be as this campaign goes on. I don’t know what kind of future you have in mind for yourself after this damn war is over but I think you could do a damn sight worse than being a career soldier. I’ve never asked you your feelings on it before so I wasn’t sure.”
This was unexpected. Tom had never really given the subject much thought. He was only eighteen when he enlisted and, at the time, he enlisted simply to help fight a war. It seemed like the thing to do since he had no immediate prospects for an occupation. It never occurred to him to think of the military as his permanent employment. Now, since the question had been put to him, it didn’t seem like a bad idea. At least, at the moment, he didn’t have a better one. Army life wasn’t that bad, even in wartime, and there was no one waiting at home for his return. So, he thought, why not?
“Well, sir . . .” He hesitated before expressing a definite commitment. “I reckon it wouldn’t be a bad choice at that.”
Thrasher smiled. “Can I take that to mean you are interested in staying in the army after the war?”
“Yessir, I guess so, sir.”
“Good, I thought you might. I already had orders cut for your transfer.” He could see Tom’s eyes widen with surprise and he hastened to explain his statement before Tom got the wrong idea. “I don’t mean you’re going to Washington with me. You don’t want to go there anyway, a young fighting man like yourself.”
Tom was confused but he waited for the colonel’s explanation.
“Tom, this war will be winding down before the year is out. And when it does, most of the young officers like you who got battlefield promotions will either be mustered out or, if they stay in, will revert back to their original grade. For you, that would be sergeant. But if you go ahead and reenlist in the Seventh Cavalry and take a transfer out there now, you most likely will keep your commission. And the chances for advancement ought to be a helluva lot better on the Western frontier. For one thing, you won’t be butting heads with so many West Point men. And hell, you might go out there and build up some seniority and then transfer back East . . . if that’s what you want.”
Tom did not respond at once, but took a few moments to consider what Thrasher was telling him. He was smart enough to see that the colonel was trying to do him a favor. He was also smart enough to know that, with his lack of education and training, he would have too much competition from the regular army officers. He didn’t know much about the Western frontier, except there was seemingly constant trouble with the Indians. And he had never heard of the Seventh Cavalry, which had recently been formed under General Alfred Terry. Finally he answered.
“I reckon it sounds like a good idea.” He shrugged. “I reckon fighting is fighting—Rebs or Indians, don’t make that much difference.”
“Good man,” Thrasher replied. “I think it’s a good decision.”
And so, barely two weeks later, Tom Allred was on a train bound for K
ansas.
CHAPTER 11
Fort Riley was a hot, dusty assembly of stark buildings and scant fortifications in the summer of 1865. Tom had not seen a great deal of the surrounding countryside since his arrival three weeks before, but his fellow officers assured him that what he had seen on the two patrols he had accompanied was representative of the whole damn territory. He had at least seen enough to know that it was in stark contrast to the green, damp river bottoms of Mississippi or the rolling hills of Tennessee. It didn’t really matter that much to him anyway. He could make do just about anyplace. There was no one at home waiting for his return to St. Louis. That city might have been the place of his birth but home was wherever he could count on a cot and three meals a day. It was fortunate for him that he was of that disposition because life was pretty dull for most of the officers at Fort Riley. It was miserable, monotonous duty for those who had families back East, a fact that turned out to be a piece of good fortune for Tom because otherwise he might have been assigned as mess officer. That was what the regimental commander, Colonel Watt Thompson, had in mind for him, since Tom had no experience on the Western frontier. Before orders were signed, however, B-Troop commander Captain Wesley Rogers Bluefield had requested that Tom be assigned to his troop as executive officer. Captain Bluefield’s former exec was one of those who succumbed to the terrible monotony of garrison life at Riley and had deserted two days after Tom arrived. The general consensus was that he had said to hell with it and gone back to Ohio where his wife and parents lived.
Tom had made no protest when first told he was to be in charge of the post mess tent but he certainly felt no enthusiasm for the job. So it was with a great deal of relief that he learned he had been plucked from the kitchen to be a frontline cavalry officer again. He had ridden on one short patrol with Wes Bluefield and the man seemed to be a levelheaded officer. He didn’t waste a lot of words on idle conversation. When he spoke at all, it was usually to give an order. This was all right by Tom. He didn’t cotton much to a lot of jawing anyway. He was to find out later on that the only reason he had been ordered out on that first patrol was so Bluefield could look him over.
Wind River Page 15