Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “A capital idea, sir,” Charlie said, displaying a wide grin. Being an intelligent young man, he offered his arm not to Lurene, but to her mother. “May I escort you, ma’am?”

  “My, yes.” Mrs. Mills said, beaming.

  Mills rolled his eyes in consternation and Lurene stifled a giggle as they went into the church.

  Thus, on that Sunday morning, Charlie Riker launched his attack to capture the heart of Miss Lurene Mills. Not knowing he’d already won his objective, he spent the following months plying her with flowers, letters, and visits to the home. Even howling blizzards could not deter him. His arrival on even stormy nights amazed Lurene and her parents.

  Finally, it was summer. The Minnesota snow had gone away for good and the sultry evenings were well set in for the season. Now, since Charlie considered the time was right, he popped the question in the gazebo of the Mills’s expansive backyard.

  That was the easy part.

  Next he had to get the old man’s permission to marry the daughter. Lurene had already dropped some heavy hints, but it was going to be up to Charlie to make the final maneuvers in the war of love. He approached Mills later that same evening after dinner. Finding him in his study, Charlie didn’t ease the conversation into the reason for his visit. He simply blurted it out.

  “Mr. Mills, I would like to marry Lurene.”

  Mills, who had been dreading such a situation, winced openly. “God!”

  Charlie wasn’t discouraged. “I have already proposed to her, sir. She has accepted and I promise to be a faithful and affectionate husband.”

  Now it was Silas Mills’s turn to be candid. “Have you ever thought about getting out of the army?” he asked.

  “No, sir, I haven’t,” Charlie replied cheerfully. “In fact, it is the furthest thing from my mind.”

  “I would prefer that my daughter wasn’t married to a soldier,” Mills said. His tone carried a strong hint.

  “I’m afraid that’s what I am, sir,” Charlie said. The young man’s voice echoed a tone of its own—finality on the subject under discussion.

  “How would you like to get into the world of commerce, Mr. Riker?” Mills asked. “Perhaps a position with my firm would be in order under the circumstances.”

  Charlie became even blunter. “Mr. Mills, I would never consider leaving the army under any circumstances. I chose to attend West Point because all my life I have wanted to be a soldier. I intend to remain one, sir, until the end of my days.”

  Mills decided that a different approach was called for. “I had rather hoped that she would marry into the Sims family.”

  “I know who you mean, sir,” Charlie said. “I met him at a party several months ago. In fact, it was the same one at which I was introduced to Lurene. I found Mr. Sims to be a pasty-faced fop.”

  Mills smiled to himself. Although not used to hearing any of the Simses of Saint Paul spoken of in such a manner, he was in complete agreement. Stifling a desire to chuckle out loud, the older man was silent for a while. “What sort of business is your family in, Mr. Riker?”

  “My father is a retired sea captain,” Charlie replied. “He makes modest investments in cargo now and then. We also own some unremarkable property in Maine, none of it particularly valuable, I’m afraid.”

  Mills, in his competitive world of business, was not used to such veracity. He looked at the young officer and realized for the first time what a serious and dedicated man he might be. “Do you think you’ll go far in the army, Mr. Riker?”

  “I should be a first lieutenant after ten years,” Charlie truthfully replied. “Then in another five or ten I could be a captain. I shall probably retire with the rank of lieutenant colonel or colonel after thirty-five years or so.”

  “Mmm,” Mills said thoughtfully.

  “Of course, one never knows,” Charlie said optimistically. “Circumstances might make me a general someday.” Mills paced back and forth. “Mr. Riker, would you always entertain the thought of returning to Saint Paul if you ever found that life in the army had grown somewhat, shall we say, less than desirable?”

  “Of course, sir,” Charlie said without hesitation. “I promise you that, Mr. Mills.”

  Charlie Riker and Lurene Mills were married on January 1, 1861.

  After a short honeymoon trip back to Charlie’s hometown in Maine, the couple returned to live in officer’s quarters at Fort Snelling. The Mills offered roomy accommodations in the family mansion and when that was refused Silas Mills offered to put them up in a house all their own in Saint Paul. But Charlie didn’t want to be different from any of his fellow officers, so the couple moved on post. Lurene moved graciously into the military community. A naturally friendly young lady, she found her new friends interesting and entertaining. Charlie beamed with each compliment he received on the choice of a wife. But the happy routine came to a halt that April.

  Fort Sumter was fired on down in South Carolina, and the young country went to war with itself. All the southern officers resigned their commissions and headed back for their home states as hostilities mounted. In June, Charlie’s regiment was ordered to Washington, and the happy couple reluctantly parted company.

  Charlie’s responsibilities grew. With the departure of so many southerners, vacancies occurred in the officer cadre of the unit. Charlie was appointed commanding officer of L Company, and by the time they arrived in the nation’s capital, he had been promoted to first lieutenant many years before he had expected it.

  The regiment’s main duty was to guard public property. It wasn’t long before the regiments of militia and volunteers from all over the north began to flood into the city in preparation for war. Charlie was alarmed by the naive, amateur troops. They expected to have the rebel states whipped and tamed in a matter of weeks. Charlie knew what sort of soldiers came from the South. The officers were aristocratic gentlemen bred to command. The enlisted men were hard types from tough mountain environments or off dusty southern farms where life was grinding poverty. Either one—officer or soldier—was tenacious, tough, and incredibly brave.

  Throughout May and June, the northern volunteers cavorted, soldiered a bit, and swaggered about in an alarming variety of colorful uniforms completely unsuited for heavy field use. In July, things turned deadly serious as the army marched out to take on the Confederates at Manassas, Virginia.

  The Union troops, under the command of General Irvin McDowell, launched their attack on the Sunday morning of July 21,1861. Charlie Riker, now a captain after his second quick promotion, was like most of the other participants—he did not know exactly what was going on. He merely followed orders, moving with his regiment from point to point either directly on or adjacent to the battlefield. Firing could be heard from different directions at different times, but Charlie and his men didn’t get involved in any real fighting until late that afternoon. That was after McDowell figured he had been defeated, and decided to withdraw.

  Charlie’s regiment was among the first to retire. They moved toward Washington, crossing over a bridge spanning a creek called Cub Rim. At this point, someone thought it prudent to have the better-disciplined regular troops hold up to cover the more disorganized militia as they retreated toward Washington. Charlie’s colonel detached his company and ordered them to stay at the creek.

  For a short time it was a pretty routine thing, until a wagon was overturned on the bridge over the waterway. At that point, wild rumors caused a rout to develop. Now, instead of marching away, the Union soldiers were running away. The situation gained momentum until what had been an organized army turned into a lawless, bellowing, fleeing mob. They streamed across the bridge, trampling and jostling each other, as the Southerners closed in. Charlie, with his professional troops, stood ready to do as they had been ordered: cover the retreat.

  When the first Rebel lines came into view, the jubilant Southerners were moving almost as fast as the escaping Yankees. Unless something was done, what had been a disgraceful affair could well turn into a massacr
e. Charlie gave the orders to form as skirmishers and move forward into harm’s way. His men instantly obeyed.

  Charlie ordered a volley and the muskets of his men thundered for the first time. The Southerners answered in kind. Now, receiving his baptism of fire, the young captain and his men stood fast. In a few short moments he learned of fear, fury, and grief as Confederate musket balls plowed into his men, perceptibly thinning out their ranks. But they closed up and continued to follow Charlie’s orders until the final remnants of gaudy militiamen streaked past them.

  Then, in an orderly withdrawal, Charlie’s depleted company pulled back from the bridge. It was then the Confederates stopped firing at them. Charlie could see one of their officers giving them a salute with his saber. Charlie returned the gesture, then marched his men back to Washington.

  A few days later a most distinguished visitor arrived at Charlie’s regiment to interview him. It was Senator William Fessenden from his home state, Maine. The governor of the state was working frantically to build up volunteer regiments and was in dire need of qualified officers. Would Captain Charles Riker accept the position as regimental commander of one of the newly formed units, with the rank of colonel?

  Smiling and thinking of his father-in-law, Charlie readily accepted. He resigned his regular army commission on August 3, accepting an appointment as colonel of Maine volunteers that same day.

  Charlie and his regiment joined the Army of Potomac. The next four years were to be long, bloody, and unforgiving. Colonel Riker and his regiment fought in the Virginia Peninsula Campaign, the Battles of Gainesville, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, the Wilderness, Cold Harbor, and Petersburg. His command was filled and refilled four times over as they slogged through the most terrible war America was ever to fight. Charlie learned the agony of exchanging volley fire at close range; of having cannonball and grapeshot rip through the ranks of his men; and the terrible exhilaration of bayonet charges into enemy positions.

  By the time Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, Charlie Riker’s Maine volunteers could muster no more than seventy-six men.

  The end of the war brought the end of his colonelcy. He held a last formation of his steadfast regiment, shaking hands with each one as they boarded the train for the trip back north to the Pine Tree State. After the farewells, Charlie reapplied for his regular army commission. It was quickly activated and he returned to his regiment with the rank of first lieutenant.

  He and Lurene looked forward to a return to the staid confines of Fort Snelling after the hectic, worry-filled years of the war. But instead of returning to Minnesota, the regiment went straight to the Indian Wars.

  The couple’s family grew to three children as they moved about from one primitive frontier post to another. Charlie, while stationed at such isolated duty stations as Fort Sill, Fort Richardson, and Fort Griffen, fought against the Kiowa and Comanche in the south. When those tribes moved onto reservations, there was more fighting to be done. Charlie and his regiment were transferred north to the wars against the Sioux at Fort Keogh, Montana.

  Meanwhile, Charlie resisted entreaties from his father-in-law to leave the harsh life and join him in the family business in Saint Paul. It was tempting at times, he admitted even to himself, but the uniform he wore, the flag he served under, and the fact that Captain Riker was convinced God had put him on the earth for the sole purpose of soldiering, kept him at his postings.

  He didn’t seem to be destined for the high rank he’d hoped for when he’d asked old Silas Mills for Lurene’s hand. The best he had been able to do after twenty years of service was the captaincy of an under strength infantry company that was now attached to an expeditionary force sent to search out and engage the Sioux.

  Chapter Three – The Second Squad

  Corporal Karl Schreiner had a hell of a time adapting to the United States Army. After serving as a not-too-reluctant conscript in his native Prussia’s military forces and fighting against the French in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71, the European style of soldiering had left him with impressions of acceptable military conduct and protocol.

  Or at least what he thought was acceptable.

  The Americans not only demonstrated a completely different military philosophy, but they also compounded this nonconformity with a marked amount of inconsistent behavior. A procedure rigorously followed under one set of circumstances would be more than ignored in another situation; it would be completely reversed. As far as the Prussian was concerned, there was no martial norm in the field, in garrison, in the wearing of uniforms, in military courtesy and customs, or even in the conduct of war.

  Schreiner had grown used to the rigid fighting of Europe, where colorfully clad armies dressed right and covered down, then squared off against each other across open fields. When the situation was right and the necessary orders issued, the sides systematically shot each other down rank by rank with deliveries of highly disciplined firepower.

  This was impossible in the war against the Indians. The Native Americans refused to abide by any rules of warfare, operating in a fluid, unpredictable style. When the Sioux, for example, grew bored with a particular situation or found it to their disadvantage to continue the fight, they simply melted away into the vast wilderness of prairie and mountain. The battle came to a rather unremarkable end, without fanfare or pomp.

  Yet these strange circumstances didn’t bother American officers in the slightest. After taking the trouble to instruct their troops in proper battle drill—and allowing the corporals and sergeants to emphasize the finer points of the lessons with their fists and boots—they completely ignored the instructions taught. They went after the Indians in a manner the Spanish insurgents who had fought Napoleon had termed guerrilla—little war—a style of fighting that was unconventional and totally without an orderly pattern.

  Another thing that Schreiner couldn’t understand was why the American Army went to war out in the West dressed pretty much as they pleased. It wasn’t unusual for buckskin to be worn by officers, and everyone had a colorful bandanna around his neck. And they all wore their headgear any damned way that suited them. Here again was an inconsistency. In garrison, strict wearing of uniform—even full dress—was observed for every formation from guard mount to formal parades on Sunday. It was enough to boggle an orderly German mind.

  There was also the peculiar way the Americans showed respect for authority. After the rigid caste system of the Old World, the style of military courtesy displayed by the United States Army left Schreiner further confused. In the Prussian Army, a corporal-called an unteroffizier—was to be obeyed instantly under threat of dire consequences for any disobedience. The Prussian corporal did not have to be big or intimidating; his rank was enough to awe his underlings. But in the American Army there were times when, as they said, a noncommissioned officer was required to back up his stripes with his fists.

  An American-born soldier in their army harbored the alarming potential of suddenly and unexpectedly exploding into a one-man rebellion by not only refusing to obey an order, but punching the corporal or sergeant who issued it. It was at times like that that Schreiner was glad he was a big man. On more than one occasion, when faced with physical insubordination, his Teutonic temper had gone wild and he’d beaten the disobedient private senseless. The most surprising thing about such situations was that the affected man rarely carried a grudge. To the Americans, such occurrences seemed to clear the air.

  Corporal punishment in Europe was more severe than in the American service, but it was not necessary to employ it often, because of the built-in respect for authority most Prussians had. But bucking-and-gagging, unauthorized kicks and punches, and even spread-eagling, were nearly weekly practices in the less orderly American service.

  Now, well into his second hitch, Corporal Karl Schreiner was still learning about the American character. He walked over to the squad cook fire to join his men in preparing their breakfast. Several pots of coffee, with bricklike hardtac
k biscuits soaking in them, boiled on the coals while the men roasted bits of salt pork stuck on the end of sticks.

  Private Thomas Saxon, an Ohio farm boy, glanced up at the noncommissioned officer’s arrival. “Howdy, Corp’ral Schreiner.”

  “Hello, Saxon,” Schreiner replied in his thick German accent. He nodded to the others as he squatted down and put his own coffee on to boil.

  Besides Saxon, there was Private Devlin, a former bank clerk from Massachusetts; George Hammer and Lars Larson, who had been laborers; Tim O’Brien and Tim Sweeney, both Irish immigrants out of rural communities of their native country; and Charlie O’Malley, another Irishman, but born in Pennsylvania. All the men, with the exception of O’Malley, were green recruits with less than six months of service. The man who had gotten drunk the previous day, Mack Baker, was Schreiner’s only other veteran.

  Saxon, only eighteen and full of enthusiasm about everything, spoke up. “Hey! Here comes Mack.”

  Mack Baker, released from his bucking-and-gagging, walked up to the squad with a sheepish grin on his face. He still moved unsteadily, with a slight limp. “Good morning, soldiers.”

  Schreiner, who had turned him in for being drunk, looked up from stirring his coffee. “How are you this morning, Baker?”

  “The blood’s pounding through my legs, but aside from that I’m fine, I guess,” Baker said. “Hell of a way to spend a night, let me tell you that, fellers.”

  “Where’d you get the whiskey?” O’Malley asked. As a soldier on his second enlistment, he thought the information might prove valuable, although he had no desire to experience First Sergeant Robertson’s style of field punishment.

  “Off one o’ the quartermaster teamsters,” Baker said. He looked at Schreiner. “Do I have time to eat?”

  “If you hurry,” Schreiner said. He looked around. One man was still back in the dog tents somewhere. “And tell Mulligan up here to get schnell—that is, quick.”