Riker noticed the second squad in particular when he gave the command to resume the march. He watched them as Company L shuffled through the thick prairie grass, moving northward, renewing their desperate bid to escape the persistent Sioux.
The second squad, under Acting Corporal Charlie O’Malley’s supervision, maintained a close formation. Some of the high spirits had simmered down and O’Malley wanted to keep them in a lighter mood. He gave his men a quick visual check. “How’s it feel to be toting those blanket rolls and haversacks again, boys?” he asked. Since the butchering of the horse, the travois had had to be abandoned.
“It ain’t a bad bargain to get something in your belly,” Mack Baker said. “Even if it is horsemeat.”
“I woulda volunteered to pull that travois myself,” Mulligan said. “But I was afraid youse fellahs would do me like that horse and butcher and eat me when you got hungry again.”
The squad burst into laughter at Mulligan’s joke.
“You wouldn’t be near so tasty, Mulligan!” Baker said. “And besides, you stand guard a hell of a lot better’n a damn ol’ horse, anyhow.”
“Yeah,” Mulligan said. “But you gotta admit I’d make a genuine Irish stew, wouldn’t I?”
The men laughed again.
Captain Riker, moving along in the column not far away, heard the conversation. He smiled to himself. It was good that the men had something to laugh about—or could muster enough feeling to see the humor in a few inane remarks.
Riker had seen loners come around before in the army, and that included West Point. Even the most antisocial individuals learned they had to rely on others in dangerous situations. The lessons might be harsh, but at least they eventually appreciated and respected their fellow soldiers.
Robertson joined the company commander. He had also noticed the difference in the relationship between Mulligan and the other men of second squad. “I’d say that Bowery boy thief is coming around, sir.”
“Yeah,” Riker said. “Mulligan will probably be a better soldier from now on.”
“Hell, sir,” Robertson said. “I seen it before. There’s a hell of a good chance that he might even stay in the army. Private Mulligan could just be a thirty-year man. I know a sergeant over in the Fifth Infantry that was a reg’lar hooligan when he first come into the service.”
“Perhaps Mulligan will follow that example,” Riker mused. “But even if he doesn’t, the world at least has a better human being.”
“Yes, sir,” Robertson said. He changed the subject. The reason I come over, sir, was to talk to you about Callan and Harrigan.”
Riker looked out on the flank where the pair of veteran soldiers plodded along with their Springfield rifles ready for trouble. “What’s on your mind where they’re concerned, Sergeant?”
“Them two is getting wore out, sir,” Robertson said. “I wouldn’t say nothing under normal circumstances, but even old soldiers get careless when they’re overused. And them two sure as hell ain’t spring chickens. We got younger feet that could be walking out there.”
“You’re right, of course, Sergeant,” Riker said. “Thank you for pointing that out to me.”
“It’s my job as first sergeant, sir.”
“Put two more men out there,” Riker said. “And you’re right. They don’t necessarily have to be the older men. I think every soldier in this column is a veteran now.”
“That they are, sir,” Robertson said in agreement. He shouted to O’Malley. “Gimme two flankers!”
“Yes, Sergeant,” O’Malley said. “Saxon! Devlin! Report to the first sergeant!”
The two friends wasted no time in obeying. They trotted over to the senior noncommissioned officer and waited to see what he wanted.
“Go out on the flank and relieve Callan and Harrigan,” Robertson said. “And stay alert. Somewhere in that open country the whole damn Sioux nation is gonna show up. Don’t let ’em surprise us.” Then he added ominously, “Because if they sneak up on the company, you two’ll be the first to die.”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
They hurried out to where the two older soldiers stumbled along. Callan and Harrigan were extremely happy to be relieved from the arduous duty. The two went back to the column where they could at least walk along with their heads bowed without having to continuously glance along the horizon.
Tommy and Harold settled into their new duties. Although they had to be vigilant, they could at least talk with a bit more freedom than when Captain Riker or one of the NCOs was in their proximity.
They walked in silence for fifteen minutes before Tommy said something. “I wish the army paid more money. If they gave us soldiers decent wages, I’d be able to save enough to buy a farm when I get back to Ohio.” Harold chuckled. “I thought you were going to stay in until you could retire as a sergeant major.”
Tommy grinned. “I got to tell you, Harold. I just about had my fill o’ being a soldier in the reg’lar army.”
“I was disenchanted by the end of my first day at David’s Island,” Harold said.
“There’s things about the army I like,” Tommy said. “I feel grand at the Sunday parades when we’re all dressed up in our full dress with them helmets on and all.”
“We’re not such a grand sight now,” Harold said. He snorted as he looked at the uniforms they now wore. Almost rags, the clothing lacked any martial sparkle whatsoever.
Tommy raised his shoe and showed the loose sole that flapped when he shook his foot. “I reckon the way we look now is something the recruiting sergeants don’t like young fellers to know about, huh?”
“I am certain they would not find us fine advertisements for army life, Tommy,” Harold said without humor.
“But I still like to drill and wear a uniform,” Tommy said. “And I like to shoot my Springfield, now that I learned to hold her in tight to keep the butt from bucking straight back into my shoulder.”
“That was a most painful experience for all of us,” Harold said.
“You know what I was thinking I’d do after my hitch is up?” Tommy asked.
“Sure. You said you wanted to purchase a farm,” Harold said.
“No. I mean besides that,” Tommy said. “I think I’ll join the militia.”
“The militia!” Harold exclaimed.
“Sure. We got a comp’ny in the town near the farm,” Tommy said. “My two uncles is sergeants in it.”
“There was a militia company in Drury Falls too,” Harold said. “Some rich men from Riverside—that’s the wealthy part of Drury Falls where I came from—get together once a month to put on fancy uniforms and march around on the green. Some of the fellows that work in the mill are in it, too. But they just joined up to get in good with the bigwigs.”
“A rich old feller runs our militia comp’ny too,” Tommy said. “He owns a bunch o’ farms and stores and stuff. He paid for the uniforms and ever’thing. That’s how come he’s the captain.”
“I hope the uniforms are better than these rags,” Harold said.
“Yeah. Anyhow, if anybody served in the reg’lar army, they get to be a corp’ral or a sergeant,” Tommy said. “That’s what I’d like to do.”
Harold sighed. “Well, Private Tommy Saxon, if it means that much to you, fine! As for me, once I’ve finished my enlistment, I’m not going near a uniform again for as long as I live.”
“I could even be an officer in the militia,” Tommy went on. “A man in Salem is a captain on a brigade staff. He goes by train over to Columbus whenever the brigadier general has a meeting.”
Harold shook his head. “Ridiculous!”
“No, it ain’t,” Tommy argued. “If there’s ever a big war like the one with the South, the militiamen go on federal duty. Anyhow, if I was in the militia, I could do all the soldier things I like and there wouldn’t be nothing going on I didn’t like.”
“Such as a first sergeant that will beat and kick you if you make a mistake or get into troub
le?” Harold asked.
“Yeah! And they don’t buck-and-gag nobody, neither,” Tommy said. He laughed. “I reckon they’d better not. Ever’body gets drunk right after the drill.”
A shrill shouting sounded to the east.
Tommy and Harold quickly glanced that way. Numerous Indian horsemen were bounding across the prairie country, heading for them.
“Oh, God! Harold!”
Harold looked frantically around. “Sweet Jesus, Tommy! Where is the column?”
The two had been so engrossed in conversation that they’d wandered off the route followed by the column. There wasn’t a single soldier in sight.
“That way!” Tommy said.
They began running in a blind panic. After a couple of minutes, Harold realized they were going the wrong way. He grabbed Tommy’s arm and steered him as he changed course. Looking back over their shoulders they could see the Sioux gaining on them.
“Oh, Lord!” Tommy said. “Oh, Lord help us! Please!” His shoe flapped as he ran.
They topped a rise and could see the column. Never had the line of blue-coated soldiers looked so good to them.
“Indians!” Tommy yelled.
“Behind us!” Harold shouted.
The company quickly formed up to meet the attack as their wayward flankers streaked toward them. Tommy and Harold got within twenty-five yards when Tommy suddenly tripped over his bad shoe. He went down in a tumbling heap.
Harold stopped and grabbed him. He pulled so hard, as Tommy struggled to his feet, that they both slipped.
Cries from the column told them to hurry up. The pounding of the Indian horses’ hooves could be plainly heard and felt in the rumbling ground.
Tommy and Harold ran once more, but the bottom of Tommy’s shoe came off and he went down again. As before, Harold refused to leave him. He helped him back to his feet.
“God, Tommy! Please hurry!”
A lone figure came running out toward them. It was Mike Mulligan. When he arrived, he fired a shot at the Indians and immediately reloaded.
“Hey, youse two! Get a move on, huh?”
Tommy, his foot hurt now, limped as fast as he could toward the company. Harold still held onto his arm and tried to hurry him along.
Mulligan, moving slowly backward, covered them. He fired again, quickly reloading. Now the air popped with incoming bullets from the Indians. The next time Mulligan raised his Springfield to fire, he staggered backward and fell down. Getting to his feet unsteadily, he tried to aim once more. But again he was hit, the blow of the bullet slamming him straight onto his back. He twisted a bit, then was still.
Mulligan stayed down.
Riker ordered rapid volley fire. The swarms of heavy slugs smashed into the attacking Indians like steel hornets. After three of the fusillades, the Sioux pulled back.
The entire second squad damned whatever First Sergeant Robertson’s reaction might be. Concerned and angry, they ran out to Mulligan. When they got there, they found he had died instantly from the strike of the second bullet. His eyes were open and there was a grimace on his face that almost seemed like a smile.
Mack Baker knelt down and gently laid a hand on Mulligan’s chest. “Brave soldier lad,” he said.
The first sergeant’s voice bellowed loudly in the rear. “Get your goddamned asses back here—now!”
Second squad quickly obeyed.
Chapter Twenty-One – The Last Salute
Captain Charles Riker formed up L Company in two ranks of fifteen men each. Sergeant Aloysius Donahue, Acting Sergeant Karl Schreiner, and Trumpeter Uziel Melech had been detailed as riflemen and sent to join the firing line.
Only the company commander and First Sergeant Gordon Robertson stood to the rear in order to command and control the action.
Robertson’s face was ashen, but that was the only emotion he showed. He snuffed a bit and wiped a hand across his moustache. “This is it, sir.”
Riker nodded. The awful thing he had been trying to avoid was undeniably upon them. The run for safety was over and the final scene was about to be played out.
L Company, because of the combination of trees and river, was protected from attack on the flanks and in the rear. But that desperate last stand made such advantages seem pointless in light of the terrible consequences the riflemen now faced. The captain glanced to the north in a wild hope that a relief column would suddenly and conveniently appear. Then he damned the childish action, reminding himself that he was in command of men about to do battle.
For fifteen minutes the countryside in front of L Company was empty. Then the Sioux began to appear. The first group was a weak, strung-out line that rode into sight without any particular coordination. Wide gaps showed clearly between the Indian horsemen. It was almost as if what they were doing was all coincidental, but their war regalia showed exactly what their intent was. Gradually, those empty spaces were filled as other warriors slowly came forward over the horizon and joined their brethren. These reinforcements continued to build up for another quarter of an hour.
The battle—if that was what to call it—would be more than a thousand Sioux fighting men against thirty-two soldiers. That overwhelming number indicated to the veterans in L Company that many clans and warrior societies had joined in the deadly activity.
“Front rank, kneel!”
Riker’s voice was commanding and loud but it displayed a tone of coolness, too. The last thing he wanted to do was to appear nervous to his men. The company commander’s own personal conduct would lead them either to fight confidently and deliberately or to behave in wild fear. He wanted them as sure of themselves as possible. Riker felt he owed the soldiers at least that much. He would do his best to see that the company’s last moments on earth were not ones of panic and terror.
The men in the forward line obeyed the captain. They dropped to kneeling positions, their eyes gazing at the multitude of aboriginal warriorhood they faced.
“Load!”
The company was so well practiced in the firing drill by then that the opening and closing of thirty rifle chambers was almost simultaneous. The clank and click of metal against metal was sharp and distinct.
“Remember to wait for the commands,” Riker cautioned them. “Do not anticipate what must be done.”
Across the open space, an old Indian appeared in front of the assembled warriors. Even at that distance it was easy to tell that he was an ancient fighter. He wore a buffalo head covering complete with horns and carried a long lance bedecked with feathers.
“That’ll be the medicine man, sir,” Robertson remarked. “And I’ll bet my next month’s pay that he’s the wicked old son of a bitch that’s been getting them Indians up for this.” Then he added in an undertone, “But I don’t think I’ll be making pay call no more.”
The old man rode toward the soldiers and chanted loudly for several long moments. He gestured wildly with the lance, shaking it toward L Company as if casting a spell or a curse on them. After a few moments he rode back to the young warriors. He pointed the weapon at a group off to one side and shouted at them.
Battle cries sprang from the group and they burst into action, charging at the company from an oblique angle. Eager to gain war glory, they exhibited no hesitation in doing what the medicine man had commanded them to do. After bounding forward for about fifty yards, they opened fire. The ragged volley slapped the air around the soldiers. Suddenly George Raleigh and Hiram Gold of the first squad went down.
“Aim!”
The Indians, now bellowing loudly, closed in.
“Fire!”
The volley sent three-quarters of them tumbling to the ground. Men and horses alike were hit, leaving only a dozen survivors to pull off to the side and speed back to the huge Sioux force still waiting.
The soldiers hollered and jeered at the withdrawing Indians. Some waved their sweat-stained field hats as if they were cheering a baseball game back at Fort Keogh.
“Quiet!” Robertson roared. “Listen for the
commands!”
“Load!” Riker shouted.
The old medicine man waved his lance again. This time he shook it at the opposite side of the Indian group. The warriors there quickly responded, galloping toward L Company. They shrilled loudly, their horses pounding across the flat grassland in the savage assault. Gunshots began to explode from their mass and, once again, bullets zinged around the soldiers.
This time a man in the fourth squad was hit. Old soldier Christopher Harrigan was spun completely around when the bullet struck. He staggered forward, then tried to get back into ranks. “I’ll dress right and cover down,” he said in a strangely calm tone. But he collapsed to his knees. After a quivering effort to rise once more, he fell over on his face.
“Aim!”
The Sioux crowded together as each warrior tried to reach the flank of the army formation.
“Fire!” Riker yelled. Then he quickly followed with, “Load! Aim! Fire!”
All twenty Indians in the attacking group were down by the time the roar of the second of the rapid volleys died down. Several horses galloped wildly away, but their riders lay sprawled over the ground.
Once more the ancient medicine man came forward a few yards. He repeated his little ceremony, shaking the lance and shouting words the soldiers couldn’t understand. Then he turned around and went back to the warriors.
“This is gonna be the big one, sir,” Robertson. He spat on the ground. “That mean old bastard just used his strongest medicine on us. He’ll have them young Sioux thinking our bullets can’t harm ’em now.”
More gesturing and shouting by the old man resulted in the entire Sioux band bounding forward.
“Load! Aim!” Riker waited a couple of beats. “Fire! Load! Aim! Fire!”
The men could feel the earth shaking with the pounding from the hooves of more than a thousand Indian horses. The soldiers loaded, aimed, and fired in a sort of dreamy calmness as the Sioux came on in an exploding, bellowing mob of enraged warriorhood. Sergeant Aloysius Donahue went down, as did Privates Silver, Czarny, MacReynolds, and Carpenter.
Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4) Page 21