A Good Man

by Guy Vanderhaeghe

  Going back to the mudroom, he rifles through the work clothes hanging there, trousers spattered with cow shit, threadbare shirts laundered so often their red-and-blue plaids have faded to pale remnants of colour.

  His mind is focused on Pudge. To reach him, he will have to pass through the enemy lines. That attempt would best be made in the guise of a civilian. Exchanging his uniform for farmer’s clothing, he lays out tunic, trousers, and shako on the kitchen table, and places his sword alongside them, his pledge the farmer’s clothes will be returned. He tucks his revolver into the waistband of his pants and leaves his shirttails hanging out to keep it concealed. But if he requires a disguise, so does Pudge. He finds a pair of coveralls, stuffs them into a milk pail, and covers them with chickenfeed from a sack in the corner of the mudroom.

  This time he keeps to the countryside, hoping to avoid the Irish troops moving up the road. Then a half mile into his journey he encounters a platoon of Irish soldiers, coursing the fields like hunting dogs. Caught in the open, he simply stops dead in his tracks and gapes, his impression of a rustic stunned by the sight of invaders. They are a tough-looking crew, broad shouldered and barrel chested, men who look like they’d been swinging picks since infancy.

  When they question him as to what he is doing and where he is going, he shows them the pail and whines out, “All the ruckus scared off my milk cow. She ain’t been milked this morning, her bag will be about to burst. I got to lure her to me with these here oats.”

  One of them says, “Yours isn’t the only cow we scared this morning. A whole herd of them took one look at us, bawled, and took fright. There wasn’t a bull in the whole lot of them. Nothing but steers and heifers.”

  There are guffaws and whoops. They wait belligerently for a response. He grins sheepishly, awkwardly, rubs his chin as if struck dumb. It is the tribute they demand. Satisfied, they slope off with a final warning. Take yourself home. The Irish army is mopping up and you might catch yourself a minié ball.

  He trudges on until he comes parallel to the crossroads on Garrison Road where Booker had met disaster. The Irish army appears to have turned it into a mustering point; it is plugged with soldiers. Amidst all this bustle, a civilian in their midst will likely be assumed somebody else’s problem or responsibility; with any luck he should be able to pass unmolested through the crowd, reach the other side of the road, and head for the spot where he left Pudge.

  Many of the Irish are cooking; a haze of smoke floats in the air. Patrols are herding new captives to join those already sitting morosely under guard. Three men drive a herd of plough horses pried from the hands of local farmers into a rope corral. There is singing and laughter. A green-uniformed soldier trundles a cask of beer on a wheelbarrow, plunder from some roadside tavern.

  Screwing up his courage, he moves down among the enemy troops. Soldiers bake bread dough twisted around ramrods, bacon spits in frying pans, potatoes roast in hot ashes. Men play cards on blankets spread on the ground. The atmosphere is curiously peaceful and domestic. No one gives him a second look. He spies a group of Irish officers astraddle the road, conferring on elsback. Dipping his head, he tries to sidle by them, unnoticed. Then behind him he hears someone call out, “You there! Halt!”

  Slowly, he turns and faces the officers. One wears a good deal more gold braid on his uniform than the others, a fine figure of a man with a full auburn moustache that gives proof of careful cultivation and grooming. “You there, suffering Jesus, what are you doing traipsing your arse around here!”

  “Looking for my milk cow. The commotion scared it off,” he says, working up a humble, conciliatory smile.

  His questioner crosses his wrists on the pommel of his saddle. “The man is looking for his cow, Captain Maloney,” he says disdainfully. “Here, gentlemen, is a stellar example of the Anglo-Saxon character. They care for nothing but property, property, and, once again, property. They are a people devoid of spiritual feelings or exalted sentiments. They swallow defeat like a cup of warm milk and go looking for their cow.” Then he adds, “But perhaps I must correct myself. This one must think he is under the special care of the angels to go cow-hunting on a day such as this.”

  There is a burst of laughter from the Irish officers. “Well put, General O’Neill,” says one of them.

  O’Neill demands to know where he has come from.

  “Back up the road.”

  “And up the road where you come from – are the Canadians regrouping there?”

  “No.”

  “And if they were, would you tell me?”

  “Not in a month of Sundays.”

  The General smiles down at him patronizingly, eases back in his saddle, stretches his legs against the stirrups. “An honest man at least.” He gestures to his officers. “Has anyone of you anything with which to write?”

  One of them passes him a notebook and pencil. O’Neill lays the notebook on his thigh, swiftly scribbles something, rips off the page, and hands it to him. “There,” he says, “I’ve written you a pass. If anyone interferes with you, show him that. The Irish Republican Army demonstrates the utmost solicitude towards civilians. It is a point of pride with us to conduct ourselves at all times in such a fashion as to shame those mercenaries who serve the Queen of England for pay.” He waits for thanks. “Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

  “Yes, I can look for my cow.”

  O’Neill scornfully waves him off. “Yes, yes, go look for your cow. Be quick about it. Do not clutter the premises.”

  Case veers off Garrison Road and makes for the copse where he had imprisoned Pudge, a blurry green smudge in the early-afternoon heat. The ground it had taken the Queen’s Own hours to win he navigates in ten minutes. Outside the wood he listens for any sound that would suggest the enemy’s presence, but all is quiet and still. He slips into the trees, proceeding gingerly, careful not to disturb any deadfall, stopping to cock an ear for voices or movement ahead. All he hears are bird cries, the faint rustling of leaves. On the edge of the glade, he crouches behind a bush, puts his hand to the revolver butt, and studies the scene. The sun glares in the clearing. And there is Pudge Wilson, his back to him, still bound.

  One thing is not as he remembers it. The body of the Irishman is gone; a whorl of matted grass marks where it had lain. His breath snags in his throat. He rises, steals forward, addressing the bowed shoulders in a loud whisper, “Pudge? Pudge?”

  His eyes run round the circumference of the glade, flick over the black trunks, the dark scramble of underbrush, catch the glint of the Irish soldier’s button, nested in the grass where the body had lain. Turning back to Pudge, seeing how the lanyard has sawed deep into the flesh of his wrists, Case hurries forward.

  What greets him is impossible to absorb. First, the slaughterhouse stench of blood, shit, and tallow. Then the swarm of yellow jackets that the smell has attracted. They bead Pudge’s bloody lips and form a quivering, chaotic halo above his head. A cloudy film floats on his blank eyes. His jaws are cracked wide as if he is still screaming. A drapery of intestines falls to his knees, spilling from a belly ripped from crotch to breastbone, and yellow jackets, drunk on the odour of freshly butchered meat, are parading there.

  His attempts to compose the body, to close Pudge’s jaws, to scoop his vitals back into the yawning cavity, enrage the insects. They settle on every inch of his exposed skin, stinging him, lighting him up with darts of pain. He does not flinch from their attacks. He does not flinch when he frees Pudge from his bonds and the weight of his lifeless embrace sags them both to the ground. He does not flinch when a cupful of blood empties from Pudge’s mouth and baptizes him with a slick caul. All he wants is to walk the two of them away from this, back to the moment when a petulant, rash decision was made so he can undo it. But despite his best efforts, Pudge will not walk, cannot be made to walk. He is extinguished.

  Case watches as the storm advances. Sheet lightning convulses the horizon. Paroxysms of greenish-yellow light flicker in his eyes; there
is a laboured, hollow groaning from the belly of the sky.

  There is no shaking the one he left behind. He is sure that is the message of the thunder.

  TWENTY-THREE

  FOR SEVERAL DAYS IN Fort Benton, the subject of most casual street-corner talk is the strange thunderstorm that had br

  oken unexpectedly over the town so late in the season. But then another distraction rumbles down Front Street, an impressive convoy of Murphy wagons, flanked by a contingent of cavalry. In a matter of hours, the news is all over town that one General Alfred Terry is in command of the wagon train and he is headed for Fort Walsh to open peace negotiations with Sitting Bull.

  When Case hears of this, it does not come as a complete surprise. Two months before, Ilges had informed him that vague rumours were circulating among the officer class that the United States government was about to form a commission to open talks with the Sioux. Immediately, Case had contacted Walsh to find out what he knew of this, and received a short, testy reply from the Major. “Nothing. But I have been ordered to stand ready to round up the Sioux and bring them in to talk – if this goddamn thing ever materializes.” For many weeks, Case heard nothing more concerning this. The flight of Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce from Oregon, the anxiety and fear aroused by their presence in Montana was the chief preoccupation of everyone on the frontier.

  Now, however, the notion of an overture to the Sioux has been resuscitated. What Ilges refers to as the Terry Commission has been given the responsibility of treating with Sitting Bull. What exactly the commission’s mandate is, Ilges does not know, but he presumes that Terry has been asked to extend the olive branch to the Sioux.

  Case has his suspicions, however. Months of intricate diplomatic manoeuvring on the part of the United States, Canada, and Britain have to have prompted this step. A meeting between Terry and Sitting Bull could not have been engineered without the blessing and cooperation of all three governments. What he cannot see is how any outcome can please all three parties concerned. In his opinion, it is highly likely that the Americans will settle for nothing short of total submission on the part of Sitting Bull. Only the return of the Sioux to American territory will satisfy British and Canadian expectations. As for the Indians, he is certain that the best they can hope for is to gather a few paltry crumbs swept off the negotiating table.

  News of the Nez Perce presence in the vicinity of the Bear Paw Mountains, which lie very near the freight road that connects Fort Benton and Fort Walsh, has, for the present, stalled the commission here in town. It is clear that Terry is not ready to run the sort of risk that Custer did – one eminent general slaughtered by Indians is humiliation enough for the United States. He is waiting for Colonel Miles to clear the path for him.

  Bear Coat Miles is pursuing Chief Joseph just as he hounded Sitting Bull. Case surmises that if Chief Joseph and his people do cross the Medicine Line, that will be the end of any chance of Terry’s holding peace talks with Bull. On the face of it, outwitting and outrunning Miles would be a small triumph for Chief Joseph, but Sitting Bull would take heart from it, seize every advantage he could from the situation. In the past, the Sioux chief has been diligent in attempting to forge alliances with other tribes. If the Nez Perce reach Canadian soil, it can be presumed Sitting Bull will pursue the same policy with Chief Joseph and his people. Two renowned Indian leaders, united in their stalwart resistance to American authority, might prove an irresistible attraction to many other Indians, draw more and more of the tribes over the border and into the Grandmother’s country, disrupting the entire frontier.

  For many months, Case and Ilges have been circling the enigma of Sitting Bull, speculating on his character, trying to predict his next move. Their discussions have been a sort of parlour game, but nevertheless a serious one. Now the Sioux chief has taken a step that astonishes Case, something as surprising as Crazy Horse’s unexpected surrender six months before. Apparently, the most prominent of the Sioux chiefs has agreed to sit down with Terry and discuss terms. Case is skeptical that Bull, even if he has realized the hopelessness of his situation, would be ready to yield as Crazy Horse did. He would like nothing better than to witness the forthcoming proceedings between the Americans and the Sioux.

  So Case goes to Ilges. During the course of their various conversations, he has talked about having dabbled in this and that in his former life, and he now informs Ilges that he has received a telegram from the Toronto paper where he once was employed, asking if he would consider covering the upcoming talks for it. Would Ilges consider intervening with Terry on his behalf, lobby the General to grant permission for him to accompany the commission when it departs for Fort Walsh? Ilges agrees to assist him, and Case’s claim to be a special correspondent to the Toronto Leader soon produces results. General Terry accedes to his request. Terry, who has two other men of the press accompanying him, Jerome Stillson of the New York Herald and Charles Diehl of the Chicago Times, can hardly deny a Canadian journalist the right to cover an affair of such importance to his nation. Case has no qualms about using his former connection to the Leader and to the editor who had summarily dismissed him more than ten years ago to get him what he wants.

  Two days after that, word arrives that Chief Joseph has finally surrendered to Colonel Miles in the Bear Paws. The way now cleared, the Terry Commission sets off for Fort Walsh, and Case goes with it.

  Ada remains at school until six o’clock, preparing lessons and marking assignments. In the past few days she has made it a habit not to bring her work home with her so that she can keep Wesley company in the evenings. His spirits have improved; she thinks the cause for it is the Terry Commission and the hope it brings of settling the troubles with the Sioux, a topic that is frequently on his lips. He seems steadier, but she thinks any further diversion she can provide will help keep him from sinking into the black state that had so alarmed her after his return from Cow Island.

  The house that greets her is forbiddingly dark and quiet. She calls up the stairs and gets no reply. Dreading he might have had a relapse – is lying up there with an arm flung across his eyes as if he is barring the light from his mind – she goes up to check on him. But the room is empty, the bed neatly made, the counterpane so tight and smooth it looks as if it has been pressed flat with a hot iron. The sight of it turns her hands cold and clammy. This is how a punctilious houseguest would leave his quarters when he departs.

  Ada hurries downstairs. On the kitchen table she discovers the sheaf of soiled and tattered foolscap she had come upon him reading once, and which he had so quickly hidden from her sight. But now here it is, centred on the table as precisely as the bed had been made. Beside it are several pages of writing paper covered in Wesley’s minuscule script. It is some time before she dares to pick up the letter, but then she does, and begins to read.

  My dearest Ada,

  By the time you read this I shall be well on my way to Fort Walsh to attend the talks between General Terry and Sitting Bull. I regret not to have given you warning of my intention to make this journey, but I feared if I did you would attempt to dissuade me and succeed. I have an opportunity to witness something significant and to see the Sioux chief at close quarters as he and General Terry face each other across the negotiating table. Perhaps I may be of use to Major Walsh as these events unfold.

  And there is something else, far more important to me, which I must say. Late one night, a little more than a week ago, I resolved to reveal something to you from my past. I thought it only right and fitting that you should see me more clearly – even if it means running the risk of you showing me your back, the thing I most dread. You have always demanded that we make ourselves known to each other, and you are entitled to the truth.

  But each time I tried to find the moment to speak, I lost my will.

  Instead, I have decided to leave you a written account, one that will explain an event from my past. I believe that my absence will give you the time and the solitude to come to a quiet and reasoned decision
about my nature. I realize that if I were there to see your face when you learned the truth, I might beg you to take pity on me. That would hardly be fair. Perhaps all this strikes you as craven equivocation but if it is, my heart is not aware of it.

  Beside this letter, there is a document, an honest record of my conduct in a battle that occurred more than ten years ago. I wrote it shortly after the incident to which I allude. I have kept this statement near me all these years as a reminder that I was responsible for ending a man’s life. My father asked me to write it out to assist his lawyers in preparing my defence. At the time, there was talk of a court martial to examine my role in the death of a fellow officer, one Lieutenant Wilson. Lieutenant Wilson’s father, a Church of England bishop, was claiming that as the commanding officer of a company I had been negligent in not seeing to it that his son – whom Bishop Wilson had been told suffered heatstroke during the course of battle – had been evacuated behind the lines. The bishop claimed that due to my disregard for his son’s safety, Lieutenant Wilson had lost his life at the enemy’s hands.

  When my father urged me to write a statement of fact, that is exactly what I gave him. It detailed all my actions, revealing that I had done far worse than Bishop Wilson presumed. Dismayed by what he read, Father judged my statement the product of hysteria or an unsound mind and never submitted it to the lawyers. What I had written did, however, supply him with one bit of useful information. Father learned that only one other man, a Sergeant Jimson, knew the whole truth of the matter. Sergeant Jimson disappeared from Toronto before any questions could be put to him. I have no doubts my father suborned him.