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

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Right, Corp’ral,” Baker said. He left them and walked back toward the orderly row of dog tents that made up the second squad’s bivouac area.

  Harold Devlin spooned out some of the soggy hardtack from his coffee and took a bite of the hot, spongy mass. Chewing thoughtfully, he asked, “I wonder what they’ll have us do today?”

  Schreiner shrugged. “I saw the captain to a meeting going at the general’s tent. I am sure he will come back with some news.”

  Thank God for cavalry horses,” Devlin said sardonically. Like the others, he’d grown so used to the way Schreiner sometimes mangled English sentences that he scarcely noticed it. “If it wasn’t for those poor suffering brutes they would walk us to death.”

  “Even a plow horse needs rest,” Tommy Saxon pointed out.

  Devlin slowly shook his head. “I never thought I would be in a position where more consideration would be shown animals than men.”

  Old soldier Charlie O’Malley laughed. “That’s what happens when you go for a soldier, Harold. No one made you list, did they?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “In Prussia,” Schreiner said, “they make every able-bodied man in the army go to put in time. They conscript them.”

  “They did that in the war here,” Devlin said. “But rich men could hire substitutes.”

  The sound of a scuffle broke out in the tents. They all stood up to see Mack Baker and another member of the squad, named Michael Mulligan, engaged in a fistfight. By the time they all ran over, Baker was on top of Mulligan, pounding his head on the ground.

  Schreiner, disgusted, dragged him off. “What between you two is going on?” he demanded.

  Baker’s face was livid with rage. “I caught this son of a bitch in my tent!” He reached into Mulligan’s shirt and pulled out a pocket watch. “See? This is mine. It’s got my name engraved on it.”

  Schreiner glared at Mulligan through his cold blue eyes. “Get on your feet.”

  Mulligan, his face expressionless, stood up, brushing bits of grass off his uniform.

  “That watch is the only thing I got that’s worth anything,” Baker said to the others. “I seen him pulling it outta my haversack.”

  Lars Larson grabbed Mulligan’s shirt front. “Tyv! Were you the one that took the dollar from my tent?”

  Mulligan maintained his silence.

  Schreiner grabbed him by the arm. “Come wit’ me, Mulligan. It’s off to the first sergeant to see. Move!” He pointed to Baker. “And you too come.”

  “Shit!” Baker complained. “I ain’t gonna get any hot coffee this morning!”

  Schreiner and Baker both held onto Mulligan as they marched and pushed him through the company bivouac to the dog tents where the sergeants lived. They walked to where the two noncommissioned officers were consuming their own breakfast.

  “Sergeant McCarey,” Schreiner said.

  McCarey, recently returned from his duty as sergeant of the guard, groaned. “Now what? Is Baker in more trouble? Christ, he’s only gotten out of a bucking-and-gagging not an hour ago. Sure, and even he ain’t capable o’ finding more whiskey this fast.”

  “No, Sergeant,” Schreiner said. “Mulligan it is who is in trouble. He is a t’ief. We ask from you permission to the first sergeant to take him.”

  “Goddamn yer Dutch eyes, Schreiner!” McCarey complained. “I wish ye’d learn the English language better. Are ye asking me permission to take Mulligan to the first sergeant? If so, go right ahead, with me blessings.”

  Schreiner and Baker propelled the accused man to the large tent that served First Sergeant Robertson as both an office and living quarters. When they arrived, Robertson was seated inside at his field table, bringing his duty roster up to date. He was not pleased with the interruption. “What the hell’s with you three?”

  “We caught a t’ief,” Schreiner announced.

  “Who’s a thief?” Robertson asked.

  “Mulligan, Sergeant,” Baker interjected. “I caught him in my tent pulling my watch outta my haversack.” Robertson only shrugged. “He don’t look like a thief to me.”

  Schreiner was astounded. “But in the act he was caught by Baker. He stole—”

  Robertson leaned forward. “Listen to me, Schreiner. Mulligan don’t look like a thief to me. Thieves got black eyes and busted noses and busted jaws. That’s how a thief looks. So don’t bring no healthy-looking son of a bitch over here and tell me he’s a thief.”

  Schreiner was confused at first. Then he realized that once again he was dealing with an American idiosyncrasy—the art of saying something in a most roundabout manner. “Come on,” he said to Baker. “To those trees over there we will take him.”

  “With pleasure!” Baker said.

  Mulligan allowed himself to be dragged to the inevitable beating. It was nothing new to him. He’d endured such treatment all his life. It had been his father at first. Later on he’d been knocked around in the streets as his life evolved into professional thievery. The police had done their share of pounding on him. Physical batterings were a way of life for Mike Mulligan. He was already mentally prepared when Schreiner and Baker dragged him inside the tree line.

  The first punch was to the back of his head.

  Mulligan figured Schreiner must have done that. He was big and strong enough to knock a man down with one blow. The next was a kick to the ribs. That was Baker’s style. He tried to cover up, but the beating grew more intense, until he was unable to protect himself properly.

  Mack Baker grabbed him and dragged him to his feet. When Mulligan covered up his face, Baker punched him hard in the stomach. The thief doubled over in pain and got another rabbit punch from Schreiner. He went down again.

  “Get up!” Baker snarled, kicking him until Mulligan struggled back to an erect position. Baker unleashed a series of hard punches that dumped the man onto the seat of his pants in the grass. Mulligan was in pain, but there was still some defiance in him.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, looking up at his tormentors. “The two o’ you bastards together can’t hit as hard as one Irish copper.”

  That earned him a more intense thrashing, until he felt his consciousness start to slip away. Finally it stopped.

  Schreiner and Baker grabbed Mulligan’s arms and dragged him from the trees and over the open field back to Robertson’s tent, depositing him on the ground.

  Robertson looked over the table that served as his desk. He noted the barely conscious, badly beaten soldier in front of him. Robertson grinned. “Now that,” he announced, “is a thief!”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Schreiner said. “Now back to our squad we go.”

  Leaving Mulligan in the less-than-tender care of First Sergeant Robertson, the two returned to the squad fire and were met with a barrage of questions from the others. Baker, as the fluent native speaker of English, told how Robertson had failed to recognize Mulligan as a thief because he hadn’t been beaten up. Everyone but Harold Devlin thought it funny.

  “Barbaric,” he said. “We’re supposed to be living under conditions governed by military regulations set by the lawmakers of a civilized land. Yet we beat up thieves and tie up drunkards.”

  “I ain’t mad about being bucked-and-gagged,” Baker said. “I got drunk and was caught at it.”

  Devlin sighed. “Never mind.”

  “And Mulligan has been stealing from us for quite a while,” Tommy Saxon said. “A lot of money has turned up missing. It was just a matter of time before we caught him.”

  “Yeah,” George Hammer added. “A feller that steals from his friends ought to get beat up.”

  “Right,” Tim O’Brien agreed. “And beat up bad!”

  “I said to never mind,” Devlin said.

  “You’ll have to learn a hell of a lot more before you’re a real soldier,” O’Malley, the veteran, told him.

  “I’ll never be a real soldier,” Devlin said with a hint of superiority in his voice.

  “That’s for damned sure,�
� Baker said.

  Further conversation was interrupted by the company bugler sounding Assembly. The different bugles within the command had subtle differences. Over a period of time, each company was able to recognize their own trumpeter. “The rifles grab them,” Schreiner commanded. “Fall in!” The squad quickly assembled and was marched up in front of First Sergeant Robertson’s tent. There they fell in with the other squad of the first section.

  The haste with which Robertson took over the formation was ample proof that something unusual was up. His announcement confirmed the suspicions.

  “We’ve been ordered to a four-day foot patrol,” the first sergeant announced. “General Leighton wants to see if we can locate any camps of Sioux war parties between here and where the Crazy Woman River joins the Powder.”

  The eager young recruits like Tommy Saxon felt a surge of excitement. The older soldiers groaned inaudibly.

  “We’ll strike the dog tents and go in light marching gear of haversacks and shoulder rolls,” Robertson continued. “Store all other equipment in the quartermaster wagon.” He turned toward his tent and barked, “Mulligan! Get out here!”

  Visibly bruised and battered, the thief appeared. He walked up to the noncommissioned officer and halted.

  “Private Mulligan has been put under field arrest by order of the comp’ny commander,” Robertson announced. “For you rookies, that means he’ll stay with his squad during the day and report to me each evening. He’ll also draw a spade outta the comp’ny supplies and carry it with him on the march.”

  The men grinned openly at Mulligan, who seemed unconcerned about the whole affair.

  Robertson continued, “We’ll fall back in at eight o’clock. That gives you a half hour to strike tents and take care of your equipment. Section leaders take charge and dismiss your men.”

  Within moments, second squad was marching back to ready themselves for the job ahead. Tommy Saxon, excited and eager, could hardly wait for the adventure to start.

  Chapter Four – Private Tommy Saxon

  An Ohio farm is not a very interesting place, especially to an eighteen-year-old boy like energetic Tommy Saxon, who had grown up on tales of derring-do and glory experienced by his uncles in the Civil War. The drudgery of daily, never-changing chores was amplified when Tommy compared his life with what he imagined a soldier experienced.

  The boy’s mother, the sister of the two veterans, used to complain about the tales they told the youngster. “You’re going to have the boy thinking that being a soldier is the best thing in the world.”

  “In a way it is,” one of them retorted. As with all veterans, his memories of service had begun to match the stories he spun in a combination of bragging and exaggeration.

  The two uncles had served in the 92nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry Regiment as part of Sherman’s March-to-the-Sea. They had seen some action, but actually spent most of the war away from their unit on detached service with the provost guard. They did sentry duty at road junctions, bridges, and other military facilities. The pair, in spite of protests from Tommy’s mother, continued to talk incessantly about their war experiences. The adventure and bravado increased with each telling. Tommy loved hearing the war stories more than anything else.

  He even badgered his uncles for them, and as he grew older, his concept of army service was largely shaped by their tales.

  In the spring of 1880, with the planting almost due to start, Tommy made a momentous decision. The hard work ahead seemed disheartening to him, and he couldn’t face up to the yearly routine one more time. So he decided to run away to enlist in the army, and go west for some real adventure. If there weren’t any more Johnny Rebs around to whip, he’d do it to the Indians.

  With plenty of manpower on the Saxon farm, he wasn’t an essential member of the work force. Though he was handy to have around, as the youngest male in the family the boy was given menial jobs anyway. So, shortly after everyone in the large farmhouse retired on a late April evening, the boy slipped out his bedroom window with some bread, cheese, and apples stuffed into a cloth flour sack. He sneaked across the farmyard and struck out over the fields until he reached the county road. Then, walking rapidly, he headed for the nearest big city—Akron—where he knew an army recruiting office was located.

  Tommy had left a note stating his intentions, and he was afraid that his father, uncles, and brothers would soon be bearing down on him. He walked all that night and through the next day until late evening, when he was finally so exhausted he had to rest. He left the road and concealed himself in a grove of trees. After a few hours of sleep, he went back to the road, keeping a lookout behind him in case his family was closing in. But no one had come after him, and on the third day of his journey he crossed the city limits of Akron. Wasting no time, he went directly to the U.S. Post Office and found the army recruiter’s office.

  A large, friendly sergeant manned the station. A bit paunchy, he sported a large moustache and an extremely friendly smile. When Tommy walked in, he looked up with beaming eyes and a hearty greeting.

  “Well, a good morning to you, young fellow. What might I do for you?” he asked, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of a warm body to be clothed in army blue.

  Tommy felt slightly self-conscious, as if he were about to ask for a great favor. “Well, sir, I reckon I’d be pleased to join the army.”

  “Now that sounds like a fine idea to me.” The sergeant looked him over. “Why, boy, I can tell by looking at you that you’d make a crackerjack soldier. That’s what I think.”

  “Really?” Tommy answered, flattered.

  “Sure.” He offered his hand. “Sergeant Sanders is my name. And I’m proud to tell you that I’m known throughout the army as the recruit’s best friend.”

  “Is that right?” Tommy asked, feeling better.

  “You bet. You can ask any fellow that I’ve enlisted,” Sanders said. “I get my boys in the best regiments. That’s something you can depend on. And what’s your name, young man?”

  “My name is Tommy, er, that is—Thomas Saxon.”

  “Tell me, Thomas,” Sanders said, with a grin that was very close to a leer. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen, sir.”

  “Mmm,” Sanders said thoughtfully. “You’ll, need your parents’ permission, Thomas. Do you have that?” Tommy’s heart fell down to the bottom of his clodhopping shoes. “Well ... I didn’t know—”

  “But your pa wouldn’t mind if you enlisted, would he?” Sanders asked with a wink.

  “I’m not sure,” Tommy answered. He could see his scheme for military glory slipping quickly away.

  Sanders sensed his disappointment. “Don’t get down in the dumps, Thomas,” he said, keeping his tone cheerful. “Wouldn’t your dear old dad think that army service was a patriotic thing to do?”

  Tommy shrugged. “I reckon.”

  Sanders slipped an official printed form across the desk along with an inkwell and pen. “Sure he would! Why, as for myself, I figure your pa wouldn’t mind a bit, boy. So why don’t you save him and you both a lot of trouble and fill in the blanks on that paper with the information asked for?”

  “I reckon I could do that, sir,” Tommy said.

  “And sign your pa’s name,” Sanders added with one eyebrow raised.

  “Yes, sir.” Tommy settled down and filled out the form. When he’d finished, it read,

  I do certify that I am the father of Thomas Saxon; that the said Thomas Saxon is eighteen years of age; and I do hereby freely give my consent to his enlistment as a soldier in the Army of the United States for the period of five years. Given at Akron, Ohio this Seventh Day of April of Eighteen Hundred and Eighty.

  Tommy carefully read it over, then signed his father’s name.

  Sanders took it and carefully read the statement to make sure it was correct. “This will look fine with your packet of papers, Thomas.” He got another printed form and scribbled on it. “Now you take this down to the doctor. He’s a civil
ian contract surgeon the army pays to look at recruits. He’s six blocks straight down the street there. His shingle is out in front of his office with his name on it. He’s Dr. Gomper.”

  Tommy didn’t care much for doctors. They were called only as a last resort or in case of very unpleasant circumstances like fractured bones.

  Sanders understood. “It won’t hurt a bit, Thomas. He’s just going to make sure you’re breathing and have all your limbs,” he explained with a good-natured wink. “A strong young feller like you don’t have no worries with physical examinations. Go on and don’t worry.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tommy said. He took the form and hurried down the street until he found the physician’s office. The MD, who was paid a dollar and a half per examination, made quick work of the job.

  “You want to join the army, do you, boy?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Tommy answered.

  “What in the hell for?” the doctor asked. “Things can’t be that bad in your life.”

  “Things are fine, sir,” Tommy replied, a bit confused by the physician’s attitude toward military service.

  “Then suit yourself.”

  After examining Tommy’s throat and listening to his heart, he quickly filled out the form and handed it back. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather dig ditches for a living?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think I’d like that,” Tommy answered.

  Within a half hour, Tommy had returned to the sly recruiter’s office.

  “This is fine, Thomas,” Sergeant Sanders said. He had a quota for the infantry that needed filling. “I suppose you’re in a hurry to get into that fancy uniform, hey?”

  “Oh, yes, sir!”

  “I think I can arrange something here for you, Thomas,” Sergeant Sanders said. He shuffled some papers, creating the impression he was studying them, finally pulling one out. “Mmm! It looks like if you sign up for the infantry, I can have you on the next train to Columbus Barracks. Why, you’d be sleeping in an army bed this very night. What would you think of that?”