The Other Side of Life

by Andy Kutler

  There was a short knock. “Cap’n?”

  Ethan threw off his quilt and blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting upright as his boots hit the floor.

  “Yeah!” he shouted without restraint, knowing that even Kirch’s worst bugling would not stir his snoring bunkmate.

  The door opened, filling the room with a blast of chilled air.

  Travers poked his head inside. “Five o’clock, Sir.”

  “Very good, Sergeant, give me five minutes.”

  Travers grunted something, pulling the door shut.

  Ethan stood, moving to the bureau and splashing cold water on his face, having already shaved the night before. He toweled off, threw on his coat and reached for his service belt and saber.

  A few minutes later, he was crossing the parade ground in search of his platoon leaders. There were enough lanterns and torches in use for him to see the camp bustling with activity, most of it near the stables. He found his junior lieutenants huddled together, rubbing their hands and blowing warm air into their fists.

  TJ and Whitaker saw him and came to attention. “Morning, Sir!” they said in unison.

  “Good morning,” Ethan replied. He looked at Whitaker. “Sure beats payroll escort duty, eh?”

  “The Army would do better to send TJ next time,” smiled Whitaker. “I was tempted to disappear with that strongbox and buy myself part of Mexico.”

  “What happened with the civilian Whit picked up on the road?” asked TJ.

  “I signed him up as a scout,” replied Ethan.

  The two lieutenants gave each other a surprised look.

  “The man lost his memory, not his mind.”

  “Thatch went for that?” Whitaker asked.

  “Thatch no, Gaylord yes. Make sure you meet the man. Goes by Kelsey. Sure is an interesting character. I paired him up with Terrell.” Ethan looked around. “Where’s Cal?”

  Whitaker gestured in the direction of a tall figure approaching. “There.”

  Garrity saluted Ethan with one hand while holding out a cloth bundle with the other. He loosened a corner, allowing a small wisp of steam to escape. “Emily’s handiwork. Raspberry, I think.”

  Each of the officers greedily reached for the baked goods.

  “Damn, Cal,” said Whitaker. “That girl is almost enough to make me want to marry.”

  Ethan addressed Cal. “The company?” he mumbled through bites of his muffin.

  “My men are having breakfast right now,” Cal replied, “though not as good as this. Whit’s are lined up at the quartermaster shed drawing ammunition and TJ’s are at the stables. Pack animals are nearly ready.”

  Ethan pulled out a small pocket watch from his coat and held it up to the fading moonlight.

  “Good. Carry on; formation will be in fifteen minutes. I’ll check out with Gaylord.”

  Never far from his captain, Kirch approached holding the reins to his horse. Ethan climbed into the saddle and trotted across the well-worn parade ground. As he neared the command post, he saw Emily on the porch of her quarters, wrapped in her shawl and waving to him. Ethan smiled, crossing over to see her.

  “You wouldn’t dare leave without saying goodbye I hope, Captain?”

  “Have I ever?” he asked. “Now why don’t you go back inside and keep warm? We’re not leaving for at least another ten minutes.”

  “Hold on right there.” Emily stepped into her quarters and reappeared a minute later with a mug of hot coffee. She handed it up to him.

  Ethan grinned. “Thanks,” he said, reaching for the cup.

  “You know, Ethan,” Emily said with a coy smile, “Cal says you’ll be swinging by the Southern Platte. If you wouldn’t mind, could you pay a visit to Sarah Meredith, let her know that I would like to have her here for tea sometime?”

  Ethan shook his head with a laugh. “This time you’re not even close. First off, I hear her father is the protective sort and has a fine collection of shotguns. Second, I haven’t even met Sarah Meredith.”

  Emily placed her hands on her hips. “Cal said that the last time you were there, you said she was the prettiest girl on the Platte.”

  “She’s the only girl on the Platte who isn’t cross-eyed or as ugly as an ox.”

  Emily slapped his horse’s rump. “You are the devil, Ethan Royston.”

  Ethan grinned as his mare lurched forward, splashing the coffee over his gloved hand. He nudged the horse in the direction of Gaylord’s office.

  “Ethan!” she called after him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he called back over his shoulder. “I’ll let her know about the tea.”

  She beamed back at him. “Ethan!’ she called again.

  “Yeah, yeah,” came the reply. “I’ll keep an eye on your husband.”

  ***

  Hiram Travers was already mounted and shouting orders across the parade ground when he saw Lieutenant Garrity approaching him.

  Travers frowned. The West Point bunch—even the new adjutant Thatch, who had taken a liking to him—was a pain in his ass. He got a short reprieve as Garrity was intercepted by Whitaker, the two men conversing quietly and sharing a laugh.

  Those two officers had been snot-nosed boys without a hair between their legs when Travers joined the Dragoons back in ’47.

  In the time since, Travers had steadily climbed the Army ranks. He had been first sergeant for fourteen months now, and Travers knew damn well that A Company would be a shambles without him. He kept the other non-commissioned officers in line and clearly had the respect of the enlisted men. If not respect, then fear at least, and fear was usually better than respect. He knew the local Indian tribes as well as any soldier in the territory, including the damn Frenchie that strutted around like he was King Louie.

  He wheeled Hercules around so his back was to Garrity. Herc was a magnificent stallion, full of brawn and fire, won in a card game the previous winter. Between the stallion and his own size, Travers easily stood out among the mounted men. He liked that, everyone having to look up to him and all.

  Travers wasn’t one to make friends, so no one in camp really knew how far he had come in life. Uniontown, where he was born, was in the heart of Pennsylvania coal country, set against the Allegheny Mountains. His pap, Cecil, was a lowly clerk for the mining company that owned the town, working day and night to keep proper books for the foremen. His ma had left when Hiram was eleven, but no one knew or cared where she went.

  Cecil drank quite a bit, and was bullied around by the miners, most of whom were younger and stronger. Cecil never pushed back, though more often than not on the rougher days he managed to find a way to restore his manhood. He would return home from work and lay into young Hiram with his belt. On occasion with his open palms.

  When Hiram was fifteen, his pap took Hiram out of the one-room schoolhouse in Uniontown so he could drive a team to Morgantown twice a week for provisions. Two years of loading and unloading heavy freight gave the young man a powerful build.

  One day the county sheriff found Cecil Travers at his desk, half a bottle of rye whiskey sitting next to him. Hiram was in the county jail, said the sheriff. A boy from a neighboring town had been found in a river bed, near death with a knife wound in his back, his money and valuables taken. Seems he had been seen earlier that day riding alongside Hiram in his rig. Dried blood had been found on Hiram’s trousers and shirt sleeves. The evidence was circumstantial, but Hiram would have to sit in jail for quite a spell before his case could go to trial.

  Of course the boy was a friend of Hiram’s. More than a friend. But he said he was going to tell his sister some things, and well, that would not do.

  Forty dollars, the sheriff wanted from Cecil to set his boy free while they awaited a date with the circuit judge. Cecil had a good laugh at that one, told the sheriff the boy could live out his years in that jail for that kind of money.

  After a few months, a visitor came to Hiram’s cell. Not his father, of course, but an old Army sergeant with a thick bea
rd and several scars on his face. Said the circuit judge was going to give Hiram ten years in the state prison in Altoona.

  But there was another option. Hiram could sign on to the Army. If he kept his nose clean, he’d get twelve dollars a month, and his freedom in five years. Best of all, his previous experience driving a team would earn him a posting in the cavalry.

  After signing up, Travers did more than keep his nose clean. The Army suited him, to say the least. He became the color bearer for the 2nd Dragoons during the Mexico campaign, rising through the enlisted ranks quickly. Though he was still a teenager, he came to relish how the other enlisted men, most of them older, responded to his commands. He endeared himself to the lieutenants and captains who were mostly averse to spending a single minute disciplining their men and grateful to have a tough-minded sergeant to whip them into shape. They gave him increasingly greater latitude to run his squad as he saw fit.

  And whip he did. Literally. Most of what he accomplished was with his fists. The officers, for their part, were more than willing to look the other way, particularly with the Army so plagued by sloth and desertion. By the time Captain Royston took command, there wasn’t a man among the ninety-two in A Company who wasn’t terrified of First Sergeant Travers.

  Garrity had finished with Lieutenant Whitaker and called out to him. Travers pretended not to hear, barking out another order to the men loading the pack animals.

  “Sergeant,” Cal called out across the darkness. He was dismounted now and close enough that Travers could no longer credibly ignore him. “A word, please.”

  Travers frowned again, but gave Herc a gentle kick and approached Garrity with a salute.

  “Begging the Lieutenant’s pardon, but the Captain is forming up the company, and I…”

  Cal held up a hand. “This won’t take long, Sergeant. Get down here.”

  Travers slowly dismounted. “Sir,” he said, presenting himself.

  Cal sized Travers up for a moment. He lowered his voice.

  “I know the Texas boys in Third Platoon have been causing some problems. I heard you handled that well, kept the peace in these difficult times.”

  “Weren’t a problem, Lieutenant. Tuttle and Huxford get caught up a bit in their politics, but they’ll still listen to their sergeants.”

  “For now,” Cal finished.

  Travers gave him a curt nod. “Yes, Sir, for now. Will that be all, Lieutenant?”

  Cal took a step closer. “Sergeant, I know you’ve been around this man’s army long enough to understand what lies ahead.”

  Travers shrugged, which could have been interpreted as indifference or insolence. Travers didn’t care which.

  “You don’t seem overly concerned.”

  “The fightin’ won’t last long. The politicians have a way of sortin’ these things out, and if they don’t, there are quite a few Federal cannon that will end it right quick.”

  “That’s quite an assumption, Sergeant. You know the officers and enlisted men in this regiment who will fight for the South. You’ve served next to them. I think they’ll stand quite a bit longer than you’re giving them credit for.”

  “I guess you would know, Sir.” Travers spat on the ground, his patience used up. “I heard an interesting story over at the sutler’s store, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Seems like there was a corporal up at Fort Scott in Colorado, feller who called Georgia his home. He was a loud one too, calling Mr. Lincoln quite a few names. Seems like they found him one day outside the Fort, beat up pretty bad, with his trigger finger cut off. Now ain’t that a shame, Sir?”

  Cal narrowed his eyes. “Sergeant, I’ve had enough of this fencing. Stand at attention.”

  Travers smirked. “Didn’t mean to offend the good Lieutenant—“

  “Stand at attention now, soldier!” bellowed Cal, his voice laced with anger. The command carried across the parade ground and several men turned their heads. His tone had the desired effect though, bringing Travers to a rigid standing position.

  Cal moved within inches of the other man, their eyes nearly level. He was hardly intimidated by Travers. Part of it owed to knowing Travers would never dare strike an officer. But he also knew craven bullies like Travers steered clear of equally-sized foes.

  He kept his voice soft so others would not overhear.

  “Listen to me carefully, Sergeant, and do not say a word until I release you. Not one word.” Garrity paused. “I have another story for you. A young man here on post. A boy really, not even eighteen years old. Been in the Army for less than six months. Not long ago, he and another man here are on a supply run to Fort Pierce. They get caught in a storm while returning to the camp and lose their way a bit. They take shelter at an old abandoned sod house a couple of miles from here. You know the one, just before you hit that old Navajo burial ground. They decide to ride out the night, breaking into the supplies they were hauling. This young man, well he was given quite a bit of corn liquor from his more senior companion. He was then forced to do some things that he was really in no condition to resist. Some things that make my stomach turn. Oh, and I’m sure you would be equally repulsed, Sergeant. When the boy sobered up, a knife was put to his throat. The young man was told he was never to speak of what happened. That he would be branded a liar, his throat sliced from ear to ear, and his balls sent home to his mama.”

  Cal studied Travers intently, waiting for some sign of nervousness. There was none. Nor was there any hint of surprise or indignation. The man was stone-faced.

  “You like young boys, Travers?” Cal whispered.

  That did it. Travers turned and spat again on the ground. “If you didn’t have that bar on your shoulder, I’d…”

  “Make a pass at me?”

  Travers’ hand moved toward the knife on his belt. But Cal’s hand was already resting on his own holstered sidearm.

  “Keep going, Sergeant,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  The two men glowered at each other, until Travers slowly brought his arm down to his side.

  “Another day, Lieutenant.”

  “Any day, Sergeant. Fortunately for you, there would be no justice for this boy if I were to make this information known. Just the opposite. So, understand two things, Travers. First, if that boy ends up with so much as a scratch on him, I will beat the life out of you. Second, when we return from this patrol, you and I will see Colonel Gaylord together and explain matters. Gaylord will keep this confidential, for the Army’s sake if not the boy’s. You will leave the Army. I don’t care where you go, but you will go. Is that understood?”

  Travers clenched his fists, his face turning a crimson red. “These are damned lies, Lieutenant. You can’t do this to me. I’ve been in this army since before your mum stopped wiping your arse. Worked my way up from cleaning up horse shit and digging latrines. I don’t know who this boy is or what he’s yapping about. But I’m first sergeant now, and I’ve got friends here you know, and they’ll believe me.”

  “Friends? If word got out what happened, those ‘friends’ would flay you open and leave you to the buzzards. And that’s just A Company. The men in the boy’s company would tear you apart, limb by limb.”

  Cal turned away. “You got yourself a week left in the Army, Travers.”

  “The boy is another lying’ cuss from the South. He’ll be turning traitor any day now, Lieutenant. ’Course, now I can see why the likes of you would believe him. But Major Thatch is a good Union man. He’ll believe me.”

  Cal stopped, slowly turning. “Sergeant Travers, I never told you the boy was from the South. How is that something you would know?”

  He spat on the ground in front of Travers and walked away, leaving the stunned sergeant standing there, enraged and dumbstruck.

  The thoughts and emotions were racing through him. He had been certain the boy, Pauls, would keep his mouth shut. Travers had him scared shitless. Certainly wouldn’t have told no officer.

  The boy had only
one friend in the camp. Travers would fix that later.

  For now, it was that arrogant lieutenant with the burnt face he needed to worry about. He could ruin everything. Travers continued to glare in Garrity’s direction, his fists still balled up as he remained motionless, the cold fury pulsing through his body.

  CHAPTER 10

  As the rising sun chased away the brisk nighttime air, the long double file of mounted soldiers snaked its way across the arid landscape, leaving a billowing cloud of dust in their wake. As usual, Ethan rode just ahead of the column with his bugler Kirch, followed by the color bearers, First Sergeant Travers, and the three platoons of men. There were no wagons to hinder them, just the string of pack mules carrying extra rations and supplies.

  As the morning wore on, they reached rockier terrain, slowing the column considerably. By noon, the skies had turned a dark gray, and the soldiers quickly broke out their slickers as a sudden shower deluged the company. The rainfall was mercifully short, and in time the sun managed to break through the clouds and offer a bit of warmth to the soaked men.

  After they had cleared a large ravine and the ground flattened out again, Ethan instructed his bugler to recall the scouts and bring Lieutenant Garrity to the head of the column. Cal galloped up a minute later.

  Ethan was grim. “It’s time.”

  Cal exhaled and nudged his Appaloosa closer.

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Of course I don’t want to do this. Form the men, please.”

  Cal turned his horse, giving the order to Travers to assemble the three platoons in company formation. Ethan waited patiently as the men formed ranks, looking at him expectantly, their curiosity piqued. Even Terrell and the new man, Kelsey, peered out from the back row of men. Ethan felt the knot in his stomach despite the mental rehearsals his morning had been consumed with. He cleared his throat and the quiet murmurs in the ranks quickly subsided, the men rapt with attention.

  “I know this is somewhat irregular, but I wanted to address you men away from camp. Most of us have been together for some time now. We’re like a family, in some respects, and I wanted this conversation to take place among just us, within our family.