In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree

by Michael A. McLellan

  The wagon was midway between the column of mounted soldiers. Clara reached the front of the line and turned back. Lieutenant Blake, who was at the head of the column, tipped his hat to her and said, “Good morning, Miss Hanfield,” as she moved past.

  She nodded an acknowledgement; she didn’t blame him for following his orders, but she didn’t want to speak to him, either.

  A searing pain suddenly shot through Clara’s abdomen, doubling her over. The pain was followed by a wave of faintness. The world’s color grayed-out. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Warmth rushed from her vagina; blood soaked into the thick fabric of the riding habit and ran down her legs into her boots. The thirsty prairie soil between her feet turned the color of old bricks.

  “Here, now!” a soldier exclaimed as he watched Clara first drop to her knees, then fall face first in the dust. He and several other soldiers—including Lieutenant Blake—dismounted and hurried to her side. Theo Brandt’s attention had been elsewhere but he turned at the soldier’s shout. Irritation crossed his features as he climbed from the wagon and strode briskly to the cluster of soldiers standing over Clara.

  “Move back, please,” he said. “Miss Hanfield, what’s the matter?” He stopped short and stared open-mouthed at Clara.

  “Reese, help me turn her over,” Lieutenant Blake said to the soldier next to him. “The rest of you, back away.”

  They gently turned Clara over. “Oh, lord,” the soldier said, seeing where her blood had soaked through the dark green skirt.

  “Let’s get her into the wagon,” said Brandt, kneeling.

  “You men! Move those horses, now. And get that wagon up here,” Lieutenant Blake called out.

  The lieutenant looked at Brandt. “What happened? Has she been wounded? Is she ill?”

  “Neither that I’m aware of.”

  Clara moaned, her eyes fluttered open. Her look was one of confusion. She tried to push herself up.

  Lieutenant Blake put his hands on her shoulders. “You lie still. We’re going to help you into the wagon. Have you been wounded recently?”

  Clara began to weep.

  “Miss Hanfield—” Brandt began.

  “Get away from me!” Clara screamed at him.

  The wagon was driven up alongside Clara. “Let’s get her inside,” Brandt said softly, when what he really wanted to do at that moment was put his hands around Clara’s throat and strangle the very life from her. He would have no choice but to take her back to that filthy military outpost with its stinking privies, uneducated plebes, and foul-mouthed unfortunates. He could only imagine what kind of man the doctor was. Regardless, it wouldn’t be the doctor Jonathon Hanfield blamed if Clara died.

  The three men lifted Clara and carried her to the wagon. She was still weeping. The soldier who had been driving crawled inside and helped guide her in. Once done, Lieutenant Blake began giving orders.

  “Reese, I want you and Dunbar to ride back to the fort and collect Doctor Clark. We’ll start back that way as quickly as is prudent.”

  “What do you think’s wrong with her, Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t know. Get moving and don’t spare the horses. Private Rains, bandages, now.”

  The lieutenant turned to Brandt. “Move away from the wagon, Mister Brandt.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I want to speak with Miss Hanfield, and it’s plain that you trouble her.”

  “She is my charge, Lieutenant.”

  “I beg to differ, Mister Brandt. She is my charge until which time we return to Fort Laramie. Now, please move away.”

  Brandt started to move. “You’d do well to mind your tone, Lieutenant Blake.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  A young private handed Lieutenant Blake a bundle of cotton fabric. He took it without a word and walked the few steps to the back of the wagon. Clara was lying on her side with her arms covering her face.

  “Miss Hanfield, I need you to tell me if you are wounded….Miss Hanfield—”

  “Leave me alone.” Clara knew about the morning sickness from Lillian, the kitchen helper who allegedly informed Clara’s father about Clara and John. Lillian’s mother had suffered from it while pregnant with Lillian’s younger brother. The morning sickness was all she knew about being pregnant. Nonetheless, there was no doubt in her mind; she’d lost the child.

  Lieutenant Blake was uncommonly discomfited. He was married and knew of his wife’s monthlies, but only in the vaguest sense. His wife was always secretive about the whole business. He thought the Hanfield woman had bled too much for it to be that, but he had no way of knowing for certain. He examined the floor of the wagon, it didn’t appear there was any additional blood. There was quite a lot on her skirts and shoes, however.

  “Miss Hanfield, if you’re bleeding, we need to stop it or you will die. I’m going to toss in these bandages. Please hold them tightly over…over the wound. We’re taking you back to Fort Laramie.” He tossed the bandages. They landed near her head. She reached out and took them but didn’t move to do anything with them.

  “Thank you. Now please go away.”

  Lieutenant Blake closed the canvas and did as he was asked. “Let’s move out,” he said.

  14

  Henry watched from the porch of the Alden’s store as the tired and ragged looking procession of soldiers filed onto the Fort’s grounds. He assumed this was General Moonlight and the two hundred something men he’d departed with intending to run down the Indians who’d refused to live at Fort Kearny. Henry couldn’t help but smile. The men were on foot. He imagined dozens of braves sneaking into the soldiers camp in the early hours of the morning and running off with their horses. He wondered how far the general and his men had to walk. His smile faded with this last thought. From what he’d learned about General Moonlight, Henry didn’t think he’d let the incident go unpunished. He sighed. Things were getting worse.

  He was dozing when Sergeant Campbell woke him twenty minutes later. We’ve had some luck. I guess you’ve noticed the fort’s numbers have grown in the last hour. It was General Moonlight. Indians took their horses. They had to walk back some seventy miles. The commotion will make it easier for me to cut out John’s horse. Why don’t you get yours ready and tie it up by the corral. I’ll bring out John’s and tie it up next to yours. Then you can be on your way. I’ll have him meet you a mile up the river after dark.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Good luck, Henry.”

  15

  “You hear they sent the doctor out for that woman everyone was making such a fuss about, Sergeant? They sayin’ she might be dead.”

  Sergeant Campbell lost his count of the horses in the corral. He lowered his tally sheet. “Who told you that, Private Macklin?”

  The private, a man from Tennessee who only six months before had been a Confederate soldier, spit tobacco juice. A goodish amount dribbled down his stubbly chin. “I went over to look in on the doctor—my corns have been paining me something fierce—and he was gone. Corporal over there—I cain’t remember his name—told me the doctor lit out with a pair of Yank—sorry, a pair of cavalrymen right before noon. They told the corporal she was bleeding like a slaughtered hog, and there wasn’t no hope she’d make it back here alive. Funny ain’t it? After all the trouble on her account.”

  Sergeant Campbell handed the private a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Count them again, and write the number so you don’t forget. I’ll be right back.”

  “I cain’t write.”

  Sergeant Campbell was already walking away. “You best not forget, then.”

  16

  It was early evening by the time the wagon carrying Clara and Doctor Clark arrived back at Fort Laramie. When they reached the fort, the wagon was driven to the small adobe hospital while the hot and tired escorts saw to their mounts.

  Doctor Clark and the wagon’s driver escorted Clara up to the hospital with Theo Brandt right behind. They entered into a small ve
stibule. To Clara’s right there was a short hall that opened into a large room lined with beds. From what little she could see, it looked as if all but one of them were empty.

  Doctor Clark thanked the soldier and dismissed him. Then he told Brandt there was no need for him to wait; that he would send for him if he was needed. Brandt thanked him and walked out. He saw no need to stay as the doctor had already explained to him what happened: Jonathon Hanfield’s daughter was a slut. Theo Brandt, however, had no intention of being the one to tell him. He went looking for Captain Lange.

  “You can rest in here,” the doctor said to Clara, as he opened a small door off the vestibule. “It’s just a storeroom, but I sleep in here on occasion. The laundress just washed the sheets, and they’re good ones. I brought them with me all the way from Vermont. I’ll have you stay awhile, but as long as there’s no more bleeding you should be able to resume your journey east the day after tomorrow…I already mentioned it to Mister Brandt, but I’ll speak to Ruby Alden about finding you something else to wear. For now I have a nightgown you can put on. Give me a moment, I’ll just go get it.”

  The tiny, dimly lit storeroom was cluttered with crates and cabinets. There was a small window, high on one wall. Dust motes danced in the minimal sunlight it provided. Clara moved to the corner and sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. A crate marked Morphine served as a bedside table. There was a single candle set in melted wax on top of it.

  After a few minutes the doctor returned with a plain white gown over his shoulder, and an enamel basin full of water in his hands.

  He set the basin on the morphine crate, and laid the gown at the foot of the bed.

  “I thought you might want to wash up a little better than we were able to do in the wagon.” He removed a small square of fabric from his pocket and dropped it into the basin. “I’ll go and see Ruby Alden about a proper dress, and I’ll have some food brought a bit later. I was obligated to tell Mister Brandt what happened to you. It’s up to him if he feels compelled to tell anyone else. I won’t be speaking of it again.”

  Clara couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye.

  He walked toward the door.

  Finally she forced herself to speak. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “I do what I can,” he said without turning.

  17

  Doctor Clark returned some time later with a plate of beef, potatoes, and onions, and a pitcher of water. Clara was lying in the bed. She’d changed into the over-sized nightgown and had the bed sheet pulled up to her neck.

  “I’m still trying to find a dress for you. Ruby Alden at the store is trying to locate one. I’m confident we’ll find something before you leave here.”

  He set the plate and the pitcher on top of the morphine crate, then picked up the wash basin from the floor. The water in it was dark red. He walked out and returned a few moments later with a cup, a chamber pot and several matches. He put the chamber pot on the floor at the foot of the bed, and set the matches and the cup on the morphine crate.

  “How are you feeling? Will you eat something?”

  “Better, thank you. Doctor…do you know if John Elliot is still here? He…I arrived here with him. He was put under arrest—”

  “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t know anything about that. Would you like me to get a message to Captain Lange or General Moonlight?”

  “No. No, thank you. Thank you for the food.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll look in on you later.”

  18

  Clara awoke with a start. It was completely dark and she was momentarily disoriented. There was a thump from somewhere on the other side of the door, then she heard a voice call out in a muffled shout/whisper: “Clara!”

  At first she couldn’t credit her own ears, but then it came again, “Clara!” It was followed by a second voice: “Shhhh…”

  “John?” Clara said to the darkness.

  “Here…she’s in here.”

  The door opened. Clara’s eyes had adjusted enough to see two shadowy figures enter. She threw off the sheet and sat up. “John? I’m here.”

  John rushed over and kneeled in front of her. “Dear God, Clara. What happened? Are you hurt?”

  “Our child…” Clara burst into tears. “Our child is gone.”

  “Oh, oh, Clara, darling, I’m so sorry. This has all been my fault.”

  “I’m sorry. I truly am, but we have to go—now. Miss Hanfield, can you walk? Can you ride?”

  “Sergeant Campbell?”

  “Yes. We have to leave, right now.”

  “I can walk.”

  “Then come on and follow me.”

  John took Clara’s hand and led her out of the storeroom. There was a little more light and John saw she was dressed in only a nightgown, and barefoot as well. “Clara, your clothes—”

  “They’re covered in blood.”

  “Get them anyway, John. We can wash them later, in the river,” Sergeant Campbell said.

  “Clara, where are they?”

  She led him back into the storeroom.

  “That you, Doc?” came a voice from deeper in the hospital. “Doc, my leg’s on fire. Doc?”

  “Hurry,” Sergeant Campbell hissed.

  Clara and John came back out of the storeroom and Sergeant Campbell turned for the door. He opened the door slightly and looked across the parade grounds at the cavalry barracks, several men stood outside talking. He looked right, then left. “Come on,” he said, opening the door and walking down the porch steps. At the bottom he turned left and walked briskly to the end of the building where he turned left again. He could hear Clara and John right behind him.

  Once behind the building they were completely obscured. The horses were tied by the river, about two hundred yards away. They would be exposed for a short period before they reached them, but the moon was waning and the night was very dark.

  “You can still go back. Maybe you won’t be blamed,” John said without much conviction.

  “I’ve made my decision, for my own reasons. We need to hurry, Henry won’t wait. You two go; straight that way and up the river. I’ll be right behind.”

  John started off. It took a great effort for him not to run. Clara pulled back against his grip and whispered, “Let go, you’re hurting me.” He released her hand but kept looking back to make sure she was following.

  They reached the river, and the horses. There were only two, one was the roan Henry had purchased for Clara. Sergeant Campbell mounted the other one. “That isn’t an army horse, is it?” John asked, while helping Clara up on the roan.

  “I may be a deserter, but I’m not a horse thief. This one is mine. Come on.”

  John climbed up behind Sergeant Campbell because it would be too difficult to double on the sidesaddle.

  John turned to Clara. The white nightgown gave her a ghostly look in the faint moonlight. “Are you certain you can ride?”

  “Yes. Please, can we get away from here?”

  “Follow me,” Sergeant Campbell said.

  19

  Henry looked up when he heard the voices. Not one, but two horses. He stood and walked over to Harriet. Keeping an eye on the approaching silhouettes, he eased the Spencer rifle from its scabbard.

  “...should be getting close.”

  “He did give you his word he’d wait?”

  Henry relaxed. He gave a short whistle.

  “Henry?”

  “That’s right.” He returned the Spencer to its scabbard. “I reckon some things changed,” he said when they got close enough for him to identify them. “Hello, Miss Hanfield,” he said.

  “Hello, Henry.”

  He turned to the pair riding double. “Lieutenant…Sergeant.”

  “John. Please, just John from now on.”

  “Good to see you, Henry. Though I didn’t think it’d be so soon. I guess since we’re all just citizens now, you might as well start calling me Ben.”

  Henry smiled faintly in the darkness. “That may take some ge
tting used to, and I reckon citizen isn’t what the army will be calling you. Your horse is over here, John. I really have to get a move on.”

  “We’re going with you,” Clara said.

  Henry looked up at her, then at John.

  “We’ve already decided. I have to see this through, and we’ll not be parted again,” John said.

  Henry was silent for a long time. At last he said: “I guess I’ll be going on alone. You do what you believe is right.” He turned to Benjamin Campbell. “Sergeant…Ben, I don’t know your reasons for being here but you’re welcome to come along with me. I won’t be responsible for what might happen to Miss Hanfield, and, respectfully, Miss Hanfield, you’d slow me down and I just can’t have that. I’ve lost too much time already.” He turned toward Harriet.

  “They’ll be looking for us. Where are we supposed to go?” Clara asked.

  Henry stopped and turned back. He sighed and regarded Clara. “You’re wearing nightclothes.”

  “I have her dress and shoes right here. They need to be laundered,” John said.