by Rod Miller
“Precisely. And, of course, the larger region.”
The cowboy’s mind filled with visions of fleet-footed Arabian horses skittering like the desert wind across shifting sands. He saw stallions, mares, fillies, and geldings milling about a verdant oasis, tended by young men in flowing robes, who, in turn, were tended by bejeweled beauties in skimpy, exotic costumes. He could almost taste the figs and dates and sweet wine (although, truth be told, he had no experience with such fare) fed him from the tender hands of these sultry princesses of the mysterious Middle East.
But, mostly, he saw horses. And while he imagined them too fine to act as mere beasts of burden, the temptation to be among such storied equine excellence was irresistible.
Again, he rose from his seat and screwed his thirteen-gallon hat down on his head.
“Major,” he said, “I’m your man.”
This time, the officer accepted his extended hand.
CHAPTER THREE
* * *
The rowels on Rawhide Robinson’s spurs jingled as he clomped up the ship’s gangplank. Slung over his shoulder hung his bedroll and the strap of a canvas bag in which he carried most of the rest of his earthly belongings.
He lowered it all to the planks when challenged by a uniformed junior officer—the cowboy figured him to be a junior officer as he looked young enough to still be a stranger to a straight razor and shaving soap. Rawhide Robinson doffed his thirteen-gallon hat and removed the official paperwork he had secreted there. The navy man studied the documents with a wrinkled brow, shifting his gaze from time to time from the paper to the cowboy and back again.
“Looks like everything is in order, sir,” the young man said. “Welcome aboard the USS Cordwood.”
“Who’s the captain on this here boat?” Rawhide Robinson asked as he stepped onto the deck.
“Begging your pardon, sir, the USS Cordwood is not a boat. You are now aboard a ship—a full-rigged naval supply ship displacing five-hundred-forty-seven tons. She’s one-hundred-forty-one feet stem to stern, and twenty-nine feet in the beam. While not a fighting ship, she does carry a complement of four twenty-four-pounder cannons. Forty officers and men make up the crew of the Cordwood, commanded by Lieutenant Howard Clemmons.”
“Sorry about that, young feller. Now, where would I find this Lieutenant Howard Clemmons?”
“His quarters are aft, sir, below the poop deck. You will likely find him there.”
“Aft?”
“Uhh . . . rear end of the ship, sir.”
“Rear end. I see. That have anything to do with—what did you call it? Poop deck?”
The young officer stuttered and stammered as his neck, face, then forehead turned crimson. “No, sir. Nautical term. Completely unrelated. From the Romans, sir, who carried pupi—little gods—there for luck and protection.”
“You are a wealth of information, ain’t you, young feller.”
The officer snapped to even sharper attention than he already was. “I do my best, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ensign Scott, sir. Ian Scott.”
“Well, I thank you for your help, Ensign Ian Scott. I’ll wander on back thataway and see what I can find,” the cowboy said as he hefted his bedroll and war bag. “Don’t suppose I can get too far lost, seein’s as how I’m on a boat.”
“Ship, sir. I’m sure Lieutenant Clemmons will have someone show you to your quarters and help you stow your gear.”
Rawhide Robinson moseyed along the Cordwood’s deck, taking note of sailors at their work and admiring the miles of rope stretched, hanging, and coiled almost everywhere he looked. While no stranger to a sailing ship, his prior experience was short-lived, so his curiosity was as wide as a Great Basin alkali playa. He queried the men at work from time to time, but was rewarded only with terse replies, irritated grunts, and dirty looks. But he realized they were busy and knew there would be plenty of opportunities for conversation when on the high seas.
The cowboy eventually located the proper hatch and passageway to take him to the captain’s quarters. He knocked and a gruff voice invited him to enter. He opened the door and ducked under the low doorframe to avoid bumping his thirteen-gallon hat. Another guest already occupied the cramped quarters.
“You must be Rawhide Robinson,” said the man sitting next to a small desk attached to the wall, his raspy voice made even more gravelly as it wound its way around the stem of a pipe.
“Yes sir. And you must be Lieutenant Clemmons. Or is it Captain Clemmons?”
The man squinted through the tobacco smoke as he puffed on the pipe, then pulled it from his mouth. “Both. Lieutenant being my rank, ship’s captain being my job.”
“And who might you be?” the cowboy asked the other man. He, too, was in uniform.
“Major Benjamin Wayne, United States Army,” he said with a smile. Unlike the captain, Wayne stood and shook hands. “The War Department has entrusted me with the command of our mission, and kindly placed Lieutenant Clemmons and the Cordwood at our disposal in order to carry out our orders.”
The major resumed his seat in a wooden chair beside a small work table. “Have a seat.”
Rawhide Robinson hooked the toe of a boot under the rail on the other chair, dragged it away from the table and sat.
“What do you know of your assignment?” Wayne asked.
The cowboy studied the army officer. Unlike the major at Fort Brown, this one’s uniform was rumpled and showed evidence of wear, and the front of the tunic carried hints of a recent meal. “Not a whole lot,” he said. “That there bigwig at Fort Brown didn’t tell me much. Only that we was a-goin’ to someplace called the Levant to acquire for the US Army some fine Arabian horses for mounts and pack animals.”
“He said that?”
“Well, not in so many words. But that’s what I made of it.”
Wayne pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “There’s more to it than that, Mister Robinson. But we’ll leave it there for now.”
“Fine by me. But let’s get one thing straight between us right now. You’re not to call me ‘Mister Robinson.’ If ever there was such a person, that would be my old daddy. Me, I’m just Rawhide.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“And none of that ‘sir’ stuff, either.”
Wayne laughed. “Fine, then, Rawhide. For the sake of military discipline I will ask you to address me more formally, if you don’t mind. ‘Major’ or ‘Major Wayne’ would be most appropriate, particularly when junior officers or sailors are present.”
Rawhide Robinson nodded in agreement and Wayne turned his attention to the ship’s captain.
“Lieutenant Clemmons, I trust you will see to Rawhide’s accommodations.”
The captain gnawed on the stem of his pipe and growled, “He’ll bunk with the sailors in the crew’s quarters. His gear he can stow in a footlocker.” Then, to the cowboy, “I will assign a junior officer to see to your needs, Robinson.”
“Why, that’s right kind of you, Captain—I suppose I should call you Captain?”
Clemmons nodded through the curtain of pipe smoke.
“Say,” Rawhide Robinson said. “How’s about that young Ensign Ian Scott? He available to look after me?”
The captain gnawed on his pipe stem for a moment. “I suppose so. Any particular reason?”
“Not really. I met him first thing when I got on the boat—ship—and he seems a sharp young feller. It appears as he knows his stuff.”
“He is an eager one, if still a bit green. Consider it done. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Major Wayne and ‘Rawhide,’ I must see to final arrangements before sailing. We’ll be underway within the hour.”
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
Rawhide Robinson craned his neck until he grew dizzy. There was no end to the fascination he felt watching the sailors scramble and clamber and climb through the ship’s masts and yards and sails and rigging like so many squirrels in a Black Hills pine forest. On deck and below decks, the
sailors and officers were likewise efficient, going about their business with little wasted motion.
It called to the cowboy’s mind a branding crew, where each hand knew his job and how it affected the work of others. How the ropers and flankers and knife men and those who handle the hot irons and even the tally man orchestrate a fluid, rhythmic symphony of efficiency and grace.
Then, Rawhide Robinson, with a violent shake of his head, rattled himself back to reality and the realization that branding was dusty, dirty, dangerous work where the days ended with grit and grime in every crevice and crease of man’s parts and pieces, smoke-saturated clothes covered with mud and blood and other effluents, ears overwhelmed with bovine bawling and bellowing, bones stretched and twisted until tired, hands red and raw, and even teeth feeling the pain.
He imagined the work of the ship workers likewise challenging. Still and all, he thought with a smile, a job of work that had to be done might as well be done well.
It was, after all, The Cowboy Way.
A few days out, with nothing to fill the eye but an endless expanse of sea and sky, life and work aboard ship became less hectic and fell into a routine. A routine, by the way, the footloose cowboy found confining in more ways than one. Rather than unrolling his assigned hammock at night, he preferred unfurling his bedroll on the quarter deck under the stars. The rank and fetid atmosphere of the crew’s quarters was the match, he thought, of any ranch bunkhouse he had ever occupied.
Not being the solitary sort, however, Rawhide Robinson enjoyed evenings in the cramped accommodations before bedtime. He found the sailors much like his cowboy compadres—ever ready to shuffle the pasteboards and deal a friendly game, share a song, recite a verse, or spin a story. And when it came to the telling of tales, no man on land or sea was a match for Rawhide Robinson.
“You ever been on a ship before, cowboy?” one sailor asked one quiet evening.
“Not to speak of,” Rawhide Robinson said. “I was at sea one other time, but I was a-horseback at the time.”
“^&,($*!” said a sailor.
“%+^=!” said another.
“Now, hold on there a minute, boys. It’s true—and mayhap I’ll tell that story sometime. I brung it up only to say that when my horse pooped out, we was fished out of the sea and finished our journey on a ship sort of like this one. But I was so worn out that I slept most all the time, so I don’t rightly recall much about it.”
The cowboy squirmed his backside into a new position on the deck floor and leaned back against the bulkhead. “But, boys, I am no stranger to salt water.”
“What do you mean?” asked a sailor.
“You’re a landlubber sure as you’re born,” said another.
And yet another: “What do you know about salt water?”
“Well, if one of you-all will freshen up this cup with what passes for coffee around here, I’ll tell you-all about it.”
Someone did.
And Rawhide Robinson did.
“You see, fellers, it was a few years back that I found myself kicking around Utah Territory with no particular place to go and in no hurry to get there. One afternoon I was ambling around the streets of the city when a stranger buttonholed me and offered a thirst-quenching libation at a local grog shop and suds palace.”
“He what?” said a voice from somewhere among the assembled sailors.
“He wanted to buy me a beer.”
“Why don’t you just say so?”
“I did. Now, hush up and let me get on with it before my train of thought jumps the tracks, or the thread of my story unravels, or—”
“—C’mon, cowboy, tell the story.”
“Certainly. Now, where was I?”
“About to have a libation with someone.”
“Ah, yes. Here’s what happened. See, he was an agent of some kind for this here cattle ranch that was on an island in this enormous lake outside the city. I tell you, boys, you ain’t never seen the like of that lake. Miles and miles of clear, cool water as sweet as a mountain spring. And fish—you wouldn’t believe neither the size nor the number of finned critters swimming around in that body of water. And there weren’t no mistaking they was there, either, because that water was so clear as to be invisible—there didn’t appear to be anything at all between you and the bottom, no matter how far down it might be.
“And beaches—lovely little alcoves at every turn, with sand so smooth and soft it was like walking through clouds. If the sandy shore didn’t suit your fancy, why you could walk inland a few steps and find your repose on a carpet of grass so green it would turn Ireland the same color out of envy. Trees, of course, to spread cooling shade over you when you wanted respite from the warmth of the sun, and to offer shelter to songbirds that could stir your soul with their melodious ditties. I swear, fellers, there ain’t no place on this entire earth more fitting than that lake for courtin’ women—which I did my share of, mind you, but that’s another story.
“Anyway, back at the ranch. Or, I should say, to the ranch. As I was saying, this man who bought me that drink that day was the agent for a cow outfit on an island in that big lake. With roundup and fall works in the offing, he was a-lookin’ for an extra hand or two. With me being dressed like a cowboy and all, he figured I must be the man for the job, which of course I was.
“He told me to shake my shanks out to this place by the lake where boats came and went, and in two hours’ time I was to hitch a ride on this supply boat that was delivering a load of foodstuffs and such to the ranch. I got there in plenty of time, of course, what with ‘Reliable’ bein’ my middle name, and I found the boat.
“Now, I don’t rightly know the name for a boat like that. It wasn’t near as big as this cork we’re a-floatin’ on, but it was of a good size. There weren’t any sails, but it had a little steam engine. That there boat had a flat bottom, and it didn’t stick out of the water more than a foot or two. There weren’t no downstairs like on this ship, just that one floor that spread out from side to side and end to end.”
A sailor offered, “Sounds like a barge to me.”
Another, “Could be a big bateau.”
And another, “Or a punt.”
“Naw,” said yet another. “If it was somewhat large and had a flat deck like he said, I believe a barge is what it was. Them other watercraft you mention is puny.”
“I’m with you,” said still another. “Especially if it was outfitted to haul supplies, which he said.”
“And a steam engine—that’s the giveaway. Barge for sure,” yet another opined.
The discussion carried on for a time until, finally, a growing segment of the audience agitated for the continuation of Rawhide Robinson’s story until their demands proved overwhelming.
“One question before you continue,” a sailor said. “You said this story was about you and salt water. And here you are telling us about a fresh-water lake. And a barge. It don’t make no sense.”
“Hang with me for a minute and quit chompin’ at the bit. Your patience will be rewarded, I promise. Like as I said, I found that boat or barge or whatever you want to call it. It was tied up there by a little boardwalk that floated right on the water. (Rawhide Robinson’s unfamiliarity with maritime nomenclature drew laughs and snickers from the sailors at this point, but he kept on with his tale.) That boat was stacked wide and deep with crates and boxes and barrels and bags of supplies of all kinds, mostly destined for the cook shack. And quite the cook shack it must be, I remember thinking, to need that much grub. Turned out it was, as that island ranch was bigger than ever I imagined, and took a right bunch of cowhands to keep it running, and a right bunch of grub to keep them running.
“But that is neither here nor there. What matters now is that I could not find another soul anywhere around. I shinnied all around the edges of that boat looking for someone but it appeared I was as alone as Adam in the Garden of Eden before he came up missin’ a rib. Then I heard some sound, like maybe a hog rootin’ for acorns in the Arkans
as woods, only real faint-like. I squinted my ears to get a better listen and determined it came from atop that load of goods somewhere.
“I climbed up the edges of some boxes and crates until I could see over the top, and there, halfway sunk into a stack of sacks of rolled oats was a man near as round as he was tall. Snoring to beat the band, he was, and even from a distance I could smell alcohol so strong that if you was to light a match over his blowhole it would shoot flames high enough to singe the feathers off a seagull—of which there was plenty around, by the way.
“A bundle of pitchfork and shovel handles was at hand, so I pulled one out of the wrappings and reached out and rapped that feller on the foot with it.
“Didn’t do no good. He snored right along. As he kept on doing when I adjusted my aim to tap a kneecap, pound his pulchritudinous paunch, and slap his shoulder. It wasn’t till I bounced that stick of wood off the end of his nose that I was able to get his attention. He labored out of his rest with a flapping of his eyelids and fluttering of his lips, and elbowed his way upright—leastways, the top part of him, the rest being sunk in among them sacks of cereal.
“After a while he managed to stagger and stumble out of there and made his way to the back of the boat to where the steam engine that made the boat go was, and the little spoked wheel he drove with. With nary a word to yours truly, he set out towards that island. Me, there I was a-sittin’ on the edge admiring the view into the depths of that lovely lake when all of a sudden he shut that engine down faster than slammin’ a door. ‘Mermaid!’ he let out with a yell. I scurried around to where he was and he hollered, ‘Look! Off the starboard bow!’ ”
Rawhide Robinson paused in his story, enjoying the sight of the assembled sailors as taut with anticipation as a fiddle string awaiting the bow. So the cowboy stood, he stretched, he moseyed a moment to loosen his legs, and he topped off his coffee.
Soon, the sailors set up a racket fit to wake the dead, demanding he continue. So Rawhide Robinson squatted amongst them, as if by a campfire, and continued.