Libbie

by Judy Alter

  "What" turned out to be a Dakota blizzard. By midafternoon it was dark as night, and snow—fine, powdery white snow—drifted in around the windows, under the eaves, anywhere there was a crack. I had the suffocating feeling that we were trapped, with a white blanket settling over us, and it gave me comfort to know that the camp, full of soldiers, was within yards of our small shelter.

  A knock on the door announced the adjutant, who had come for orders. From his bed Autie said weakly, "Break camp. The horses might not survive this storm. Have the soldiers take them into town and beg hospitality from the citizens. Use every house, barn, and cow shed you can. Take those new puppies with you, and see that they are kept warm."

  "Yes, sir," he said, saluting smartly, and was gone, but not before I issued my own order to send the doctor again, for Autie seemed to grow weaker and weaker, and I more frantic each moment.

  Within minutes we heard horses' hooves outside as the soldiers followed Autie's instructions. And then we were truly alone in that sea of white. Mary and I retired for the night, there being nothing else to do in the cold. I was wrapped in blankets three deep, but still my fingers were so numbed with cold that I feared I would drop Autie's medicine each time I gave it to him. The doctor did not return, and I can't say I was surprised, but I remembered the serious expression on his face when he commanded me to give the medicine every hour. Without it I was sure Autie would perish.

  "Miss Libbie? Did you hear that?"

  "That thud?" I whispered back. "Yes, Mary, I did. We must see what it is."

  Together we flew downstairs toward the front door, where there was loud, desperate pounding. When we halloed, shouts came back to tell us there were soldiers outside. "A couple of us are in bad shape, ma'am," came one voice. "Open the door."

  "I can't. It's... it's frozen shut." Even as I spoke, Mary and I pried and pulled with all our might. "We've taken down the bar. See if you can push."

  Between our feeble efforts and the desperation of the men, we exerted enough force that the door opened with a suddenness that sent eight soldiers falling into the room. They had become lost in the snow and had seen the faint lamp Mary had left in the window. Two were badly frozen, suffering greatly, and we had no way of warming them.

  "The carpets, Miss Libbie," Mary said suddenly. "They'se stacked over in that corner."

  I had forgotten that the carpets were with our belongings destined for the garrison. We unwrapped the great squares and rolled the poor men into them. Still, they needed some kind of liquor to warm their insides, and much as I blessed Autie for being a teetotaler, I longed for whiskey. Never again, I swore, would I keep house without it.

  "Mary, bring me the alcohol that lights the spirit lamps."

  "Miss Libbie, if you use that, we can't make no coffee for ourselves."

  "Bring it to me, Mary," I said levelly, wondering all the while if it were the kind of alcohol that would blind men. But the groans of these men convinced me I had to take the chance. They coughed and sputtered on the fiery liquid, but the two in such bad shape gradually revived somewhat, though their frozen feet were swollen and extremely painful. Those two men groaned softly throughout the night.

  There was no sleep that night, what with running back and forth from Autie to the soldiers. Morning found us surrounded on three sides by drifts as high as a wall, and Autie still too weak to rise. There was little food—the soldiers had some hardtack, and we had the remains of Mary's basket of provisions—but Autie was too ill and I too anxious to eat. The day dragged on—Mary sank into a corner, exhausted, and I missed the sound of her voice, even raised in complaint. If I rubbed my finger on the window glass and melted a spot, I could see drifts to the second story, though the wind had swept a clear place in front of the door.

  That night a drove of mules rushed up to the sheltered side of the house. Their brays had a sound of terror as they pushed, kicked, and crowded themselves against the frail wooden structure. Then, as suddenly as they had come, they rushed away. But throughout the night we heard the occasional neigh of a horse, almost human in its appeal for help, or a lost dog lifting a howl of distress right under our window. Once the sound at the door was so human that we opened it, only to see the strange wild eyes of a horse—those eyes haunted me ever after. We did try to entice the dog inside, but he disappeared into the night, with me wailing all the while that he would surely die.

  When the night was nearly over, I flew from my bed in horror at a new and terrifying sound. A drove of hogs, squealing and grunting, were pushing against the house and battering at the door. By the time I was again down the stairs, Mary at my heels, two soldiers were braced against the door to hold it shut against the determined hogs.

  "We'll take turns, ma'am," puffed one soldier. Worried that their strength would give out before the hogs became discouraged, I fled back upstairs. Hogs, I reasoned, could not climb stairs. Exhausted, I fell into a restless sleep, burdened with bad dreams, until, more pleasantly, I dreamt I smelled bacon.

  "Miss Libbie, you got to eat." There stood Mary with a tray holding steaming coffee, along with some small bits of steak and potatoes.

  "Mary," I asked, shaking the cobwebs from my brain, "how did you...?"

  "Well," she said reluctantly, "I had some candles... from the train... and I figured I could cut them up and burn them in bits, close together, to get enough flame to cook a bit."

  She had stolen candles from the train, in other words, and was now reluctantly admitting to thievery. After hugging her, I ate with relish, and even Autie was able to eat enough to revive.

  "Hush, old lady, you'll scare Mary," he said good-naturedly, as I wailed about our situation. "Someone will come help us directly," he assured me.

  "Fine for you to say," I said angrily, "when you've lain abed these two nights, and I've been the one alone and terrified."

  "How could you be alone with eight soldiers downstairs?" he asked, the twinkle back in his eyes.

  Wounded that Autie would not commend my bravery and understand my fears, I curled up in a ball, my back to him in the bed. Autie simply reached over and tousled my hair, and then fell into the most peaceful sleep he'd had in two days.

  Help came, of course, as Autie predicted. The officers of the Seventh, new to the Dakotas, were ignorant about the way to survive such weather, but some of the townspeople from Yankton gave them a cutter and led them out to the house.

  Soldiers love a good story, and after they investigated the few men who had remained in camp, they came back with stories of men frozen to death and newborn babes come to enough of the laundresses that we could have peopled a children's home. Finally the stories reduced to one infant, born in a tent, apparently healthy in spite of his traumatic arrival, and several men who had suffered badly, but none frozen. The puppies, however, did die, and Autie mourned them as most men might a child.

  A day later we were settled in Yankton, with the officers and their families ensconced in the hotel. The townspeople, as though to make up for our rude reception, determined to give us a ball, and we ladies burrowed in trunks for those bits of finery we had not supposed we'd need. Fashions change so rapidly that we found after a few months in the field we were quite out of style, while the officers in their uniforms always looked dashing and never out-of-date. The ball was festive, with even the governor on hand to welcome the Seventh to the Dakotas. Afterward our finery was again buried in the trunk.

  But the gaiety went on those spring days in Yankton. Autie ordered a review of the troops in honor of the governor, and the entire unit paraded before him, who sat, mounted, beside the guest of honor. When the part came where the officers leave their companies and ride abreast to salute the commanding officer, I thought Autie would burst with pride. I knew he had a hard time remaining motionless on his horse. Ah, Autie, it may well have been your finest hour—mounted on a fine Kentucky horse, in command of an impressive body of men, the world at your feet.

  One day we were invited to lunch aboard the steamer th
at had been retained to take the regiment's property up the Missouri to Bismarck. Afterward the owner of the steamer gallantly offered to drive me out to camp, and though I longed to ride with Autie, I was forced to accept the offer most graciously. Within minutes I regretted it. Autie, restless as always, rode on ahead, and the carriage began to sway from side to side, barely skirting deep gullies. My host was, I discovered, overcome with hospitality.

  "Do you like life on the river?" I asked, trying vainly to talk intelligently and not notice the driver's vagaries, while my eyes were frantically searching the road for the next danger.

  "Love it, love it," he said expansively. "Though the missus, she don't take to it. Stays in Yankton most the time."

  More power to the missus, I thought. "Autie," I cried, far too loudly, when he rode near, "look how fast we go!" I tried to laugh, passing it off as a joke that only Autie would take seriously.

  "So you do!" he answered heartily, and rode on, to my total dismay.

  When we got to the cabin, all my nightmares came true. Mary had spread the wash out on the line, and horse and driver soon wound us hopelessly in the line and two weeks' worth of washing. The desperate horse—her name was Polly, as I learned from the shouts of her owner—tried to kick her way through packing boxes and woodpiles, and who knows what would have happened next if Autie hadn't finally ridden to my rescue.

  "Why didn't you stop him before that?" I stormed once we were inside our house.

  "The horse was reliable. I'm told it often had to make its way from place to place... ah... unguided by human hands, we might say. Oh, Libbie, you should have seen the look on your face." Unable to control himself, he doubled with laughter.

  "Reliable! Not around laundry, it's not. And the look was fright!" Then I could not resist and collapsed in laughter with him. The two of us hooted so loudly that Mary finally climbed the stairs to inquire if we were ill.

  The next day my escort arrived with a peace offering—a picnic hamper of ham sandwiches and salads and small pies. "My wife tells me I was in no condition to deliver a temperance lecture," he said, hanging his head.

  * * *

  The Seventh faced a march of 500 miles. Maggie Calhoun and I were to be allowed to march with them, while the other women, from officers' wives to laundresses, rode on the steamer. After my carriage ride, I much preferred the march.

  But as we rode out, fear settled over me, as suffocating as that blanket of white snow had been. I rode silently, lecturing myself as best I could, but doom had taken hold of me.

  "Old lady, what ails you?" Autie asked.

  "A strange feeling, Autie. I... we're headed into unknown territory, Indian territory...."

  "Look behind you," he commanded.

  I turned in my saddle to see stretched for miles beyond me the horses and men and supply wagons of the Seventh Cavalry. Behind us, they twisted around bends in the road, forming a huge snake.

  "How," Autie demanded, "can you be frightened with all these men to protect you?"

  "It is not myself I'm frightened for, Autie," I whispered so softly, he barely heard. But he need not hear, for it was a litany he knew by heart.

  "Custer's Luck, old lady, don't ever forget about Custer's Luck." He rode merrily along.

  Ever since I'd first been allowed on a march, I'd determined to be a good sport. So soon I forced myself out of the doldrums and into high spirits. I could not help remembering that awful march across Texas, now six years behind me. How much I had learned about being an army wife and a good sport in six years. They had been hard lessons, but I was a seasoned trooper.

  We rose at four each morning, taking only a hurried breakfast in the dining tent by the light of a tallow candle while soldiers waited to take the tent down the minute we ventured outside. Mary would begin to rattle the kettles as she packed, hinting that we should hurry. Within minutes of gulping down our meal, such as it was, the tent was packed, and "Boots and Saddles" sounded.

  The column always halted once during the day to water the horses, and we used the time to take what lunch we could—a hard biscuit for some, perhaps a sandwich for others. When a stream was narrow, and the hundreds of horses had to be ranged along its banks to be watered, there was time for a nap. Both Autie and I could throw ourselves into the deepest sleep within minutes of hitting the ground, though I learned to appropriate the space under the wagon for its shade. I always had to dislodge the dogs before I could nap—invariably they crowded around Autie, paws resting on his chest and legs, but it never bothered him.

  The troops were as efficient at setting up camp in the evening as they were relentless in tearing it down the next morning, and before my very eyes a tent city appeared each night. Tents were pitched in two long lines, facing each other, with the wagons at either end. Large ropes were stretched down this "street" to hold the horses. Since our tent was a bit apart, at one end of the street, I never tired of watching the camp. Maggie, Jimmi, Autie, and I would sit under the tent fly—Maggie and I usually having needlework or a book in our hands, for we believed that idle hands were the devil's work—and watch the scene.

  A delicate blue line of smoke rose from the camp fire where the soldiers' supper was being cooked. Varying shades of rose and pink tinted an almost perfect sky, and the clear air brought familiar sounds—the bugler practicing calls, the click of the currycomb, the whistle of a happy trooper, even, occasionally, the irrepressible music of the accordion. Dogs bayed, and mules brayed, and it was all a symphony to Autie's ears. This was his world, his home.

  We suffered through one more storm that spring, when the weather changed suddenly, and we found ourselves starting our march on a dull, gray morning that was stinging cold. Autie wrapped me in fur and wool until I was a shapeless mass, but still my fingers numbed with the cold until I simply had to give my horse his head. We rode like automatons, making slight progress, and finally camped by an ice-covered stream.

  All the horrors of Kansas came back to me as the wind twisted and tore the canvas when the men tried to pitch tents. Tying and pinning the opening was of no avail, for the wind twisted off the tapes and flung far and wide the brass pins I had bought for that purpose. No camp fire would burn, and our Sibley stove—a cone of sheet iron, open at the top and bottom, with a pipe fit to the top—had been left behind. I fell into an unmistakable fit of the sulks, and then was in the valley of humiliation the next morning for remorse at my bad behavior. The cold of Dakota overcame me on that one day, but it was the last time I succumbed to it.

  Autie and I loved to ride apart from the column in the late afternoon, just before we halted. The dogs—twelve in number now, mostly staghounds and foxhounds—accompanied us, leaping and racing about the horses. One day, when Tom was with us, two of the hounds started a deer, and Autie bounded after them. Tom and I rode leisurely along, wandering through the cottonwood trees that fringed the Missouri for miles at a stretch.

  "Libbie, be very quiet," Tom said of a sudden to me, and I became perfectly cold and numb with fear.

  Before us was a group of young Indian warriors, seated on the ground. I was in double danger—death or capture by the Indians, or a bullet from Tom. In recent days we had seen stakes in the ground with red flannel attached to them—"warnings to frighten us from comin' any farther," our guide explained—and though I knew Indians this side of the river were supposed to be peaceful, there was no convincing me at that moment. Indians were Indians to me.

  At their first sight of us, the Indians snatched up their guns and leapt upon their ponies, prepared for attack. If time could have been measured by sensations, a century passed in those few seconds.

  Tom rode forward and spoke to them coolly, though I could not understand what he said. Then, "Libbie, ride forward."

  To avoid showing fear when every nerve is strung to the utmost, and your heart leaps into your throat, requires superhuman effort. I managed to move my horse and avoid screaming. Slowly and deliberately Tom and I rode through the mounted Indians and on towar
d the column. When we reached it and hands were lifted to help me down, I fainted dead away, something I've never done before or since.

  "Libbie, you know the rule about mounting the horse that threw you," Autie teased next morning. "We'll ride off again today."

  "Autie, I..."

  "You what, old lady?"

  There was nothing for it. That afternoon I rode behind Autie through the roughest country we'd yet seen. The horses had a knack for squeezing through trees, but forgetting to leave space for the riders on their backs, and I was several times lifted up by the resisting branches. Sometimes we ascended such steep cliffs that I abandoned the reins and wound my hands in the horse's mane to keep from sliding off. The sheer adventure of it made me forget about Indians and my previous fright. At last, my habit torn and my hands scratched, we came to a lovely bit of road. Sunshine flickered down through the branches of the trees and covered the short grass with checkered light and shade.

  "I've some biscuits in the leather pocket of my saddle," Autie said, and I replied happily, "Oh good, a picnic."

  Having eaten, we treated ourselves to a gallop over a stretch of smooth grass. Laughing with Autie and exhilarating in the fast ride, I never noticed my surroundings, until I saw that we were almost upon an Indian village. The column was Lord-knows-how-many miles from us, and we were alone, in a land where Indians were not noted for their hospitality.

  Two old women peered out of a tent, making guttural growls and noises at us. An old man stared, his glance as malevolent as any I've ever felt. An occasional child peeked out from behind a tent, eyes dark with anger and hatred. But we did not see nearly the number of people we might have expected for the size of the village... and there were no warriors.

  "Ride slowly, Libbie," Autie said softly. He rode as though he had not a care in the world, even slackening his pace to demonstrate that he felt perfectly at home. Autie from time to time raised his hand in the universal salute of peace, and I followed his model, though with an admittedly shaking hand. Autie later declared that I bowed as though before angry gods, nearly braining myself on the pommel—an accusation I vehemently denied. Still, if politeness would help...