North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  Charles drew equipment and a fine horse, a roan, for the trip to Camp Cooper. He would ride north with the departmental paymaster and his party. On the night before his departure, he was on his way to find supper when he encountered Colonel Lee and Major George Thomas on the street. Lee asked him where he was going, and when he answered, the colonel said that he and Thomas were on their way to dine at the Plaza Hotel, and why didn’t he join them? Lee again made reference to the Academy background the three of them shared, and that overcame Charles’s hesitation. He thanked the senior officers for the invitation and fell in step beside them.

  Hot, humid weather had produced a new crop of flies and mosquitoes—overnight, it seemed. In the hotel dining room, little black boys with palm fans stood by the tables to shoo the insects away. A touch of home, Charles thought with a twinge of conscience. Though he remained a loyal Southerner, four years at West Point had exposed him to new ideas and changed some of his thinking. He had begun to feel that the South’s economy was built on a rotten foundation, one that could not help but collapse eventually—if it were not swept away by outside forces first.

  Lee and Thomas chatted in a convivial way about a variety of things. The Indian problem. Major Bill Hardee’s new infantry tactics, which were replacing those authored by General Scott. A horse race won by another South Carolinian in the regiment, Captain Nathan Evans of Marion. He commanded Company H and still went by his West Point nickname, Shanks.

  The talk turned to the weather. “Texas brings out the mettle of our military Shadrachs and Abednigos,” Lee said. “Wait till you patrol in this kind of heat for twenty or thirty days at a stretch.”

  “While trying to find ten thieving Comanches in a thousand square miles,” Thomas added. Heavier than Lee and more reticent, the major was forty or so. His quiet demeanor suggested a strong will, as did the occasional flash of his silvery blue eyes. Like the commandant, he was a Virginian.

  “If most of the Comanches are cared for on reservations, why do they steal?” Charles asked.

  Lee answered the question in a roundabout way. “We’ve tried to turn the southern Comanches into farmers, but I don’t believe they’re temperamentally suited for it—and beyond that, for the last year or so, the weather’s been against us. Nothing but drought. So their crops have failed, which means they have no money. Yet, like all human beings, they have wants. Tobacco, knives, strouding. Certain unscrupulous traders are willing to deal with them and supply those things. The traders are Choctaws, mostly, down from Indian Territory. A few are Comancheros from New Mexico.”

  Still puzzled, Charles said, “But if the Comanches don’t have cash crops, what do they trade?”

  “Horses.”

  “Stolen horses,” Thomas clarified. “Colonel Lee’s predecessor believed in what he called rigorous hostility toward the Indians. Patrol, pursue, punish—that was the strategic concept. Lately, however, Washington has followed a somewhat more passive policy. We are under orders to stand pat until there’s an outbreak, until the Comanches descend on some white settler unfortunate enough to have a few horses in a pole corral. Then we rush into action, praying to God we aren’t too late to prevent the settler’s murder.”

  Lee studied his plate of venison steak in a pensive way. “You can’t entirely blame the Comanches. We took their lands for settlement. Then we drove off the game they depend on for survival. If they have nothing, and steal, we’re partly responsible.”

  “Don’t let Governor Houston hear you say that,” Thomas declared with a humorless smile.

  But Charles could only think of the excitement of it. A mounted chase, a charge with sabers swinging. Patrol, pursue, punish. He was glad he’d been posted to the Second instead of some stodgy regiment in a safe part of the country.

  Three times a year the paymaster brought the departmental payroll from New Orleans in the form of coin. Six times annually he set out on a circuit of the Texas forts, carrying the payroll in a padlocked chest. He traveled in a mule-drawn ambulance accompanied by a provision wagon and six mounted men commanded by a sergeant.

  The mounted men were dragoons in orange-faced uniforms. Riding with them, Charles felt himself the object of the veteran’s unspoken contempt for the greenhorn. The dragoon uniforms and gear were weathered, whereas his were obviously brand-new.

  The dragoons were America’s original mounted service. Now they were being superseded by the cavalry; light cavalry, really. Like the other new mounted regiment, the Second had no heavily armored men, as European cavalry did. Further, the Second was supposed to fight on horseback, not merely ride to a battlefield and then dismount. The dragoons felt threatened by this new style of mounted warfare, of which Secretary Davis obviously approved. Their resentment showed. Except for military courtesies, they ignored Charles during the journey.

  At Fort Mason he had a joyful and alcoholic reunion with Fitz Lee, who was as cheerful and carefree as ever and just as scornful of authority. He and Charles discussed most of the West Point men in the regiment: Shanks Evans of South Carolina; Earl Van Dorn from Mississippi; Kirby Smith of Florida; John Hood of Kentucky; Alabama’s Bill Hardee, whose name had been given to the new-style hat while he was serving with the Second Dragoons. No wonder critics accused Davis of creating an elite regiment staffed with Southern gentlemen.

  Just before the pay train moved out, Fitz said to his friend, “Watch out for that troop commander of yours. He hasn’t been out here long, but his reputation’s already bad.”

  “Incompetent?”

  “Not that so much. Devious. Not to be trusted. Be careful.”

  Charles pondered the warning as he rode in the dust raised by the provision wagon, occasionally patting and murmuring to the roan he had named Palm in celebration of his home state.

  A hot southwest wind flung grit against the back of his neck. Then, within a period of ten minutes, the wind shifted almost 180 degrees, the sky filled with boiling black clouds, the temperature plummeted, and a norther came tearing at him with torrential rain and hail so large that one piece gashed his cheek and drew blood.

  In an hour the sun shone again. Ahead, the now-muddy road wound on across low hills toward a horizon rapidly clearing of clouds. As the caravan moved from a vale of glistening pecan trees to a stand of post oaks, a frightened cottontail rabbit bounded in front of the roan. Deep in the oaks, Charles heard larks singing.

  His old, brash smile returned. His uniform was soaked, but he didn’t mind. The violent, changeable weather appealed to his sense of adventure. He liked Texas better and better every minute.

  From a bluff above the Clear Fork, the paymaster’s party descended to a pleasant green valley that stretched northward until its floor became lost in the noon haze. Charles had seldom seen a lovelier place. Somehow, the twisted mesquite trees and stunted prickly pear contributed to its fierce beauty.

  But the valley’s verdant look was a trick of distance and perspective. Near the meandering river, heat-withered leaves on huge elm trees were barely stirring in the sultry breeze. The caravan passed melon and pea fields that had a parched look. Here and there an Indian stood in a dusty furrow watching the soldiers with sad eyes or sullen ones.

  Beyond the drought-stricken fields, Charles saw his first Indian settlement—about two hundred animal-hide teepees decorated with yellow and red designs and symbols. The village generated an overwhelming impression of poverty.

  Columns of smoke rose from cook fires. The odor of broiling meat mingled with the smell of human waste. Children laughed and played, emaciated dogs barked and ran every which way, and half a dozen young men added to the dust and din by riding bareback through the settlement. They were careful not to come close to the column, Charles noticed.

  Two more miles and he’d be able to dismount. He was sweating and his thighs were sore despite the protection of the regulation saddle piece that reinforced the inside of his trousers. When he finally saw Camp Cooper, it looked like paradise, even though it was simply an assortment of
fourteen primitive buildings made of stone, logs, clapboard, jacal, or combinations of two or more of them.

  The post was laid out as a rambling reversed L. In front of the flagstaff on the parade ground, a platoon of foot soldiers was listlessly practicing the manual of arms. Charles recalled that two companies of the First Infantry were posted here, in addition to a squadron from the Second Cavalry.

  The paymaster’s detail passed a little bakehouse with a clapboard roof. Two sweaty, bare-chested bakers stood in the shadow of a wall, never moving except to raise and lower their pipes in greeting. As the smell of hot bread gave way to that of manure, the dragoon sergeant rode up to Charles.

  “The stables are there, sir. Those two log buildings.”

  Charles returned the salute and trotted ahead. He turned into the nearest building, which was open at each end and empty except for the horses. A moment later, a long-striding, lanky man came through the far entrance.

  The man wore bleached cord pants and a flannel shirt decorated with small wood pickets. A sheath knife hung on his left hip, and on the other a Holster Pistol—the cavalry nickname for Colt’s 1848 Army Model revolver. Charles owned a similar gun, a six-shot .44 with beautiful walnut grips and a brass trigger guard. He had also paid for a couple of optional extras: a detachable shoulder stock with a sling ring and a cylinder with a decorative engraving of dragoons in combat with Indians. A cavalryman’s revolver was a prized and highly personal possession.

  The man scrutinized Charles. He was about forty and had a long, pleasant face partly hidden by a red beard the sun had bleached to copper. In the lobes of both ears he wore brass rings, pirate style. Some civilian attached to the Indian agency, Charles presumed. Or maybe the fellow was the post sutler. Charles dismounted and addressed him brusquely.

  “Direct me to the adjutant’s office, if you please.”

  The man pointed the way. For some unfathomable reason his eyes were simmering all at once.

  “Where can I find Captain Bent?”

  “In his quarters nursing a bad case of dysentery.”

  Tired and irritable, Charles slapped Palm’s rein against his pants leg. “Then who’s in charge of K Company?”

  “I am, sir.” The man’s eyes froze him. “First Lieutenant Lafayette O’Dell.”

  “First—?”

  “Stand at attention, sir!”

  The shout, so reminiscent of thousands at West Point, automatically drove Charles into the correct braced position. He saluted, his face turning red.

  O’Dell took his time returning the salute. He eyed Charles with what the latter took to be hostility. “My apologies to the lieutenant,” Charles began. “I’m—”

  “The new second,” the other broke in. “Been expecting you. Academy man?”

  “Yes, sir. I graduated in June.”

  “Well, the captain’s also an Academy man. It’s a regular damn club in this regiment. I’m afraid I’m not a member. I’m a plain Ohio farm boy who graduated from plow horses to cavalry nags. The captain isn’t very keen on line duty, especially out here. But I like it just fine. If you want the respect of the men, you’d better like it too.”

  “I will, sir.” Charles all but swallowed his words, the same way he was struggling to swallow his embarrassment and anger.

  “Let me tell you one more thing about serving in Texas. You’d better learn to dress for it. That fancy coat isn’t practical for long patrols, and neither is that sword you’re wearing. The hostiles don’t sit and wait for a saber charge. By the time you draw that pig sticker, they’ll swarm all over you and lift your hair. The captain doesn’t like those facts of life either, but he has to put up with them.”

  Charles lost the battle to keep his temper. His eyes were fiery as he whispered, “Thank you for the advice. Sir.”

  Suddenly, O’Dell’s stern look disappeared. He chuckled and sauntered forward.

  “That’s better. For a minute I thought they’d sent us a second with no gumption. Let me help you unsaddle that horse. Then you can report and present your compliments to Captain Bent—provided he isn’t squatting on his china pot. Don’t laugh. The water does that to every newcomer.”

  Grinning, Lieutenant O’Dell held out his callused hand.

  “Welcome to the north part of Texas or the south part of hell, I’m not sure which.”

  Charles was thankful the first lieutenant wasn’t as truculent as he had seemed at first. Like all other troops, Company K had only three officers, and Charles could imagine the problems if they disliked one another. It was already clear that the troop commander was unpopular.

  By the time Palm was stabled, rubbed down, and fed, Charles knew a good deal about O’Dell. He had been born and raised near Dayton, Ohio, and at fourteen had lied about his age in order to enlist. His current rank was a brevet; being a second lieutenant at forty was just about what an officer who lacked West Point training could expect.

  O’Dell accompanied Charles to a spot near a drab building constructed of jacal—upright poles chinked with clay mortar. He pointed out the captain’s quarters, a door at the end from which the paint was peeling. Just then another troop cantered in, its red and white swallow tail guidon snapping. Only three of the troopers wore regulation uniforms; the rest looked much like O’Dell. Charles remarked that no one had prepared him for Camp Cooper’s relaxed style of dress.

  “What you want,” O’Dell said, “is anything that suits the weather and keeps you free to move fast. Find it, steal it—and don’t let the captain talk you out of it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll take your advice.” He almost expected there’d be more, and there was.

  “I’d go see the captain right away if I were you. I sort of compare it to slopping pigs. The sooner you get it over with, the sooner you can go back to things that are more pleasant.”

  An hour later, having presented his orders and located his own tiny room, Charles knocked on the door O’Dell had indicated. A gruff voice bade him come in.

  The troop commander’s quarters consisted of a single large room. Half of the far wall was nothing more than an open window with a canvas blind rolled up at the top.

  If O’Dell didn’t quite resemble the typical mental picture of a cavalryman, Captain Bent resembled it even less. He was a soft, whalelike man about Orry’s age. He had restless little eyes and skin that had turned pink and blistered, rather than browning in the Texas sun. Charles’s immediate reaction was negative.

  Instead of a uniform, Bent wore a quilted dressing gown over a singlet that showed between the open lapels. The quilted material of the gown was sweated through under the arms and down the back.

  “I have been here four months” Bent complained as soon as Charles presented his compliments. “I should be over this damnable malady. But it keeps recurring” The captain gestured at a footlocker piled with books. “You may sit down if you wish.”

  “Thank you sir, but I’d prefer to stand. I’ve been in the saddle a long time today.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The sight of the books intimidated Charles—as did the odd look in Bent’s black eyes. The captain took the only chair, uttering a long sigh. “I regret that you find me in such straits.”

  “The first lieutenant prepared me, sir. I’m sorry that you’re—”

  “Ah, you’ve met O’Dell,” the other interrupted. “We’re both from Ohio, but we have nothing else in common. Sets a fine example, doesn’t he? Sloppiest officer I’ve ever seen. What’s worse, all the men ape him. Major Thomas informed me that if I was too strict about dress regulations, I’d have a mutiny on my hands. Captain Van Dorn seconded the opinion. I was virtually ordered to condone an unmilitary appearance. Imagine!”

  The outburst had a snarling quality. Bent’s eyes were ringed with fatigue circles, like charcoal smears above the blistered pink of his cheeks. Charles cleared his throat.

  “In any case, sir, I’m sorry you’re ill.”

  “In this godforsaken place, even illness is
a diversion.”

  Desperate to break the tension, Charles forced a pleasantry. “If dysentery’s a diversion, I’ve been told that I’ll probably be diverted.”

  Unsmiling, Bent said, “Pray you get nothing worse. Some newcomers contract stomach ulcers. Some never recover.”

  He lumbered to the open side of the room and gazed out, swabbing his sweaty throat with a kerchief. “We have all sorts of charming entertainments at Camp Cooper—named, incidentally, for the adjutant general with whom I served before I had the misfortune to come to this sinkhole.” He pivoted to face Charles. “How do you find Texas?”

  “So far, I like it.”

  “You must be mad. No, you’re Southern, aren’t you? Amounts to the same thing—” Bent blinked. “Here, don’t bristle so. I was merely making a little jest.”

  “Yes, sir.” The reply had a forced, strained sound, but Charles couldn’t help it.

  Bent returned to his chair and sank down with another exhausted sigh. “As you may have surmised, I didn’t request this duty, and I loathe it. I am not by inclination a line officer. My forte is military theory.” A gesture at the books. “Are you interested in that?”

  A little color was slowly returning to Charles’s face. “At the Academy I found the subject difficult, sir.”

  “Perhaps some private study would be useful and enjoyable for both of us.”

  Bent’s darting eyes swept over Charles’s face, making him nervous again. Courtesy demanded an answer, but he refused to say more than, “Yes, sir, perhaps.”

  “Heaven knows there’s a need for intellectual stimulation on this post. Duty at Camp Cooper consists of nearly equal parts of bad food, wretched weather, occasional forays against ignorant Indians, and pursuit of deserters driven away by loneliness or the lure of gold. The choices for leisure activity are even less attractive. The main ones are drinking and wagering on cockfights. If your temperament inclines you to cohabit with squaws, the French pox is also available.”

  The captain licked his lips. Charles had the eerie feeling that, in a curious and convoluted way, Bent was asking whether he liked women. With care, he said: