by John Jakes
“I doubt I’ll have much time for that, sir.”
“Good.” Bent’s gaze slid to the lower part of Charles’s face. The younger officer found this visual inventory distinctly unsettling. “Gentlemen always have other means of relieving the tedium.”
He sighed once more. “I suppose we are expected to endure the boredom and hardship without complaint. We’re career officers and the frontier must be defended. I accepted this post only because turning it down might have been held against me later. I should imagine Colonel Lee felt the same way, given his background.”
What a presumptuous peacock, Charles said to himself. Rather than funny, he found it vaguely frightening that Bent compared himself to the Army’s foremost officer. The captain cleared his throat.
“I thank you for the courtesy of your call, Lieutenant. I believe I should rest now. Oh, by the way. Are you aware that K Company was recruited in and around Cincinnati? A majority of the men are Ohioans. We shall try not to hold it against you that you happen to come from a less enlightened region.”
On the point of saying something foolhardy, Charles fought the impulse. Bent was deliberately baiting him, as a test of how well he held his temper—or failed. What word had Fitz Lee used? Devious. It was well chosen.
“Just another little jest, Lieutenant Main. You’ll find I’m fond of them. There is but one kind of factionalism in this troop. It is the kind which occurs naturally in the Army. You may put the needs and wishes of your men first or, alternatively, those of your commander. I needn’t tell you which choice will better serve your career and your future. Dismissed.”
Charles saluted and left. The moment he stepped into the sunshine and closed the door, he shivered. Bent’s warning had been unmistakable. If he became the captain’s toady, he’d have an easy time of it, but if he allied himself with the men—and, by inference, with O’Dell—he’d suffer.
He recalled his favorable impression of O’Dell and asked himself whether Bent had issued his warning from strength or from weakness. The latter, Charles suspected. The captain probably feared his first lieutenant.
Well, it didn’t matter. Charles already knew where he stood, and it was not with the fat misfit who lived behind the peeling door.
Handsome young man, that cousin of Orry Main’s, Elkanah Bent thought after the door closed. Almost too attractive. His good looks could divert Bent from the objective. Still, there might be a way to blend pleasure and vengeance. One never knew.
With a groan he rushed behind a cheap paper screen that concealed one corner of the room. He emerged ten minutes later, thinking of how much he hated Texas. Since arriving at Camp Cooper he had lost over twenty pounds. His spine and thighs constantly hurt from all the damned horseback riding, although with the weight loss he was getting better at it. Now, once again, intestinal pain was added to his woes.
And yet—today had been auspicious. His plan was working.
Being ordered to Texas had come as a shocking surprise. He could have called on his contacts to help him get the orders changed, but he didn’t. He knew that if he appeared reluctant to accept the assignment, it might create an unfavorable impression in the minds of certain of his superiors. That, he definitely did not want at this stage in his lagging career.
Still, the orders upset him so badly that he left his desk in the War Department and went on a three-day binge. Twice during it he awakened to find sluts in his bed; one was colored. A third time he was surprised to discover a snoring Potomac bargeman—a boy, really—whom he dimly remembered paying. Bent had long ago discovered strong drives within himself. They almost matched the strength of his ambition. He preferred the companionship of women, but he could take pleasure from almost any flesh that offered itself.
Once he had forced himself to accept the idea of going to Texas, he had set to work to make the tour rewarding in another way. The West Point graduation roll revealed that Brevet Lieutenant Main was scheduled to join the mounted service. Since the adjutant general’s office handled personnel matters for the entire Army, it was not difficult for Bent to arrange Charles Main’s posting to the Second Cavalry.
Bent’s hatred of Orry Main and George Hazard had never diminished. And if he couldn’t strike directly at the two men who had hurt his career, he would be satisfied to take revenge on their relatives—starting with the young officer now under his command.
He would await the opportune moment.
44
AS BENT HAD SAID, ABOUT three-quarters of the enlisted men of Company K hailed from Ohio. The rest were recent immigrants. German, Hungarian, Irish—a typical mix for almost any unit in the Army.
The troopers treated O’Dell differently from Charles and the captain. All three officers were obeyed, but the first lieutenant had the respect and even the friendship of his men. Charles determined to win that same kind of respect. Friendship could take care of itself.
During his fourth week on the post he discovered one of his men missing from morning formation. He found the fellow, a recent immigrant named Halloran, drunk as a tick in the stables. He ordered Private Halloran to go to his bunk and sleep it off. Halloran swore and pulled a knife.
Charles dodged the clumsy slash, disarmed Halloran, and flung him into the watering trough outside. Halloran climbed right out and charged. Charles hit him four times—twice more than was probably necessary, but the trooper had a wild look in his eye. Charles then personally hauled the semiconscious man to the guardhouse.
An hour later he sought out the troop first sergeant, a stub-nosed eighteen-year veteran of the mounted Army, Zachariah Breedlove.
“How is Halloran?” Charles asked.
“Dr. Gaenslen said he has a broken rib—sir.” The slight pause before the final word was typical of Breedlove’s professional insolence. He was older and much more experienced than most of the officers, and he never wanted them to forget it.
Charles rubbed his chin. “Guess I shouldn’t have hit him so hard. I thought he was out of control.”
“Well, sir—with all due respect—you’re dealing with soldiers here, not nigger slaves.”
“Thank you for explaining that,” Charles replied in an icy way. He walked off.
Later when he calmed down, he realized the significance of the incident. First Sergeant Breedlove, and no doubt most of the other men, distrusted him because he was a Southerner. He might never be able to win their trust. The thought discouraged him, but he was not about to give up.
Every morning the bugler sounded reveille at five before six. For a change Charles didn’t mind getting up early. The Texas autumn was beautiful and cool, the dawn skies the clearest and purest blue he had ever seen. It seemed to him that he had never tasted anything as delicious as the cook’s standard morning fare—hot Dutch-oven biscuits, beefsteak, stewed apples and peaches, and the familiar Army coffee.
Mounted drill and practicing the manual of the saber and the carbine took up a good deal of the troop’s time. So did grooming the horses. To promote the Second as a crack unit, Davis had decreed that each company should have mounts of one color. Company K had nothing but roans, Van Dorn’s company of Alabama men nothing but grays—hence the name Mobile Grays. The men in Company K soon noticed Charles’s fine horsemanship, and it even drew some laconic words of approval from O’Dell. The first lieutenant offered his compliment in front of all the enlisted men—a small but important step forward, Charles thought.
Occasionally an alarm from some settler out in the countryside sent a detachment on a forced ride, but Indian marauders were seldom found. Horses owned by settlers continued to disappear, however. And the Delaware trackers employed by the Army regularly found signs indicating the presence of raiding Yamparikas—northern Comanches—who were continuing to slip down from Indian Territory.
Boredom remained the main enemy at the post. Charles dug and hoed a garden he intended to plant next spring. He bought a pair of scraggly hens and built a small house for them. And he finally, reluctantly, sat down to
compose the letter he felt he owed Orry after all this time. He started by attempting some description of the Texas landscape, but he knew his words and his literary skills were inadequate. The first few paragraphs took so much thought and struggle that he brought the letter to a hasty close by promising to describe Camp Cooper and his odd company commander the next time he wrote.
Because he couldn’t stand to live like a monk, he slept with Indian girls occasionally. He found them lively and affectionate, and he didn’t catch the pox. And of course, because it was an expected part of military life, he participated in the chief sport of the officers—argument.
They argued about everything. One favorite topic, good for hours, was the flat Grimsley saddle adopted ten years earlier. Albert Sidney Johnston had liked it, but most of the officers sided with Van Dorn, who insisted the design was responsible for too many sore-backed horses.
They argued about weapons. Generally, Colt repeaters and Sharps carbines were considered best, although such views didn’t make a particle of difference, since the government’s theory of ordnance seemed to be that the Army should use whatever old weapons happened to be stockpiled in Federal warehouses. Hence most of Company K was equipped with 1833-model Hall smoothbore carbines, and never mind that European and American arms experts agreed on the superiority of a rifled barrel. There were even some musketoons in the troop. Old single-shot horse pistols were used for holster weapons. Charles felt fortunate to possess a ten-year-old Colt.
There were arguments about food, drink, women. About the motives of Indians and the character of Colonel Lee. About the purpose and execution of Colonel Johnston’s campaign against the Mormons and their so-called State of Deseret. The hottest differences of opinion were always generated by political issues, such as the pro-Southern constitution adopted at Lecompton, Kansas.
The Lecompton constitution offered Kansas voters a choice between a limited form of slavery and the unrestricted practice of it. President Buchanan supported it. Senator Douglas damned it, and most of the Northerners on the post agreed with the Little Giant. Charles kept out of the disputes, but his restraint did not really work to his benefit. Everyone assumed he was on the pro-slavery side.
Arguments on any subject frequently ended with a pronouncement by Captain Bent which soured whatever friendly spirit had prevailed until then and left the other officers moodily staring at plate or coffee cup. Now and then Charles caught Bent watching him with more than routine interest. He couldn’t account for the attention, and it bothered him.
In a chilly rain, the column returned from maneuvers in the northern reaches of the valley. It was the second of December 1857.
Taking O’Dell’s suggestion, Charles had soon abandoned regulation uniforms for field duty. Today he wore a slouch hat pulled far down over his bearded face, trousers of buffalo calf leather, and a deerskin coat. Around the coat collar hung a bear-claw necklace.
Mud flew as Bent rode up next to him. The captain’s glance usually registered disapproval of Charles’s clothing. This time, however, he chose to smile.
“A fire will feel good, eh, Charles?”
The first-name familiarity was unusual and made him nervous. “Yes, sir, very good.”
“After you tend to your mount and put on fresh clothes, why not drop into my quarters for a toddy? I’d like to show you my edition of Jomini’s Summary of the Art of War. You’re familiar with the baron’s concepts, are you not?”
“Of course, sir. We heard a lot about them from Old Cobben Sense.” In fact, some of Professor Mahan’s critics had said he devoted too much of his course on the science of war to the ideas of the Swiss military theorist.
“I’ll expect you, then. We’ll have a splendid discussion.”
Squinting against the rain, Charles got a clear look at Bent’s wet face. Something in the captain’s eyes put him off. He knew he must be polite, but he refused to go further.
“It’s a very kind offer, sir, but I think I’m coming down with grippe.” It was true; he felt feverish after riding for hours in this bad weather.
“Later, then. Next week—”
“Sir—” He knew he ought not to say the next, but he was damned if he’d encourage the captain’s quest for friendship. “If it’s all the same, I prefer to be excused. I’m not much for theory.”
Bent lost his look of smarmy good cheer. “Very well, Lieutenant. You have made yourself clear.”
He kicked his horse and rode to the head of the column. A bolt of lightning ripped downward to the horizon. Charles shivered as Lafayette O’Dell dropped back beside him.
“What did he want?”
Charles explained.
“Did you turn him down?”
“Flat. He didn’t like it much.”
O’Dell leaned on his saddle pommel, from which hung a pair of expensive closed holsters. Charles had a similar pair on his saddle, although he had paid extra for leopard-skin flaps. One holster held his Colt, the other an extra horseshoe, some nails, a small brush, and a currycomb.
“You’re smart not to hang out with the captain,” O’Dell said. “I guess I should tell you about him.”
“Tell me what?”
“That he has what are politely referred to as appetites. Strong ones.”
“Don’t we all?”
“No, not the same kind—at least I don’t think so. The captain pretends to hate the Indians, but that doesn’t extend to squaws. From what I hear at the agency, he’ll sleep with any woman who’s available. If he can’t get his hands on a woman, a boy will do—or even an Army private too dumb and scared to refuse him. We’ve got a couple of those on the post, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“No, I hadn’t.” Charles spat out a swear word.
“The captain hates to be turned down by anyone. I expect you’re in for a rough spell.”
Suddenly O’Dell’s head jerked up. A startled look fleeted over his face. Neither lieutenant had realized that Bent had pulled his horse to the side of the muddy trail and was sitting there, watching them, as rain dripped from the bill of his forage cap and soaked his knee-length talma. Seconds later, Bent stood in his stirrups and called, “Trot—march!”
The road was much too rough for it, but Charles understood the reason for the order. Because of his refusal, everyone would suffer.
A day later, riding on the road from Camp Cooper to the Comanche Reserve, as the agency and reservation were officially called, Charles came upon an ox-drawn carreta with one of its huge wooden wheels half buried in mud. An old Indian, his fine features worn by time and toil, was vainly trying to free the cart by pushing the wheel. Without a second thought, Charles dismounted.
“Here, let me help.” Not certain how much English, if any, the Indian understood, Charles used broad gestures to illustrate his words. “Lay that whip on the ox a couple of times while I push.”
Moments later, with a great lurch that spilled half a dozen melons from the pile in the cart, the wheel was free. Just as Charles started for his horse, he heard riders behind him. He saw the captain, Sergeant Breedlove, and six troopers. Bent and the others reined in.
“What the devil are you doing, Lieutenant?” Bent demanded.
“Helping this man push his cart out of the mud.” Resentment edged his answer; it was quite evident what he had been doing.
Sergeant Breedlove glanced at Charles with something close to sympathy. Bent said, “Don’t you recognize that fellow? Katumse is chief of the reservation Indians. We do not give aid and comfort to the enemy.”
With that he rode on; the rest followed. Charles recalled O’Dell’s prediction. Bent’s reprimand and the look in his eyes were harbingers of things to come.
From then on the captain found fault with nearly everything Charles did. He criticized him in front of the entire troop and assigned him extra duties. Charles held his temper with great difficulty, assuming that if he obeyed each order and refused to show a trace of emotion the harassment would eventually stop.
&nb
sp; It didn’t. It grew worse. In January, riding in from patrol, he found the captain waiting in the stable. Bent stepped up to Palm, slipped his index finger beneath the single band of blue woolen webbing, and tugged.
“This girth is entirely too tight.”
Charles was tired, cold, and consequently not inclined to patience. “Sir, it’s perfectly all right.”
A small, pursed smile. “What’s this? Insubordination? That can’t be allowed. Before you go to your quarters, I want you to unsaddle your mount, then saddle him again. Do that—let’s see—ten times.”
“Damn it, sir, what’s the purpose of—?”
Charles bit off the blurted question. He knew what the purpose was, but he didn’t dare confront his superior with it.
The outburst pleased the captain. “More insolence? Do it fifteen times. I shall send one of the noncoms to observe and report when you’re finished. Sergeant Breedlove, I think.” Bent was not insensitive to relationships within Company K. Breedlove was known to think poorly of the troop’s second lieutenant.
Shortly the first sergeant arrived in the freezing stable where Charles had just lit two lanterns. For the first time Breedlove looked at him with a flicker of compassion.
“Sure sorry to have to do this, Lieutenant.”
“Keep your mouth shut and we’ll both get out of here sooner,” Charles retorted.
Breedlove found a nail keg, turned it on its end, and sat down. His face no longer showed sympathy. Charles worked with angry motions, his breath pluming every time he exhaled. When he finished over two hours later—he had been slowed by exhaustion toward the end—his arms and shoulders throbbed. Leaving the stable, he stumbled and fell. Sergeant Breedlove didn’t offer to help him up.
“The Butterfield coach is four hours overdue,” Bent said above the howl of the wind.
A fire of fragrant mesquite wood sizzled in the stone hearth of the small day room. O’Dell stood in front of the fire, warming his hands. Although he was indoors, he wore his fur coat, the kind of shaggy garment that caused the Comanches to call the cavalrymen buffalo soldiers.