The Stalkers

by Terry C. Johnston

  He grinned self-consciously. “Try to write when no one’s paying attention. Figured you was asleep, what with your eyes closed.”

  Seamus smiled. “It’s sleep … or have to think about being hungry. Forced to think on things I don’t want to think on, Slinger.”

  The youngster nodded, bending over his notebook he laid open on a knee.

  “You mind reading to me?” Seamus asked.

  A startled look crossed his face. “It ain’t much, Mr. Donegan. I just write a few words what happens each day.”

  “A few words is all that counts. Go ‘head. Read it to me.”

  Slinger cleared his throat, then began reading in a soft voice:

  “Friday, August 28, 1868. I put my name down for scouting. Drawed horses.

  “Saturday 29. Drawed arms and grubb. Started at 4 o’clock P.M. Struck the Salina River at 11 o’clock in the night. Heavy rain all night. I was detailed for guard.

  “Sunday 30. Started at 8 o’clock. Raining all day. Stop for rest at 12 o’clock.

  “Monday, August 31, 1868. Found a deserted Indian camp.

  “Tuesday, September 1. Traveled as usual. No wood.

  “Wednesday 2. Struck the Beaver Creek. Plenty plums and grapes.

  “Thursday, September 3, 1868. Got out of grubb.

  “Friday 4. Was purty hungry.

  “Saturday 5. Got in a hay camp. Little to eat. Charged on haymakers supposed to be Indians on their return from Fort Wallace. One of our boys was thrown from the horse. Badly injured. Arrived in Fort Wallace at 12 to 2 o’clock in night.

  “Sunday, September 6, 1868. Took it easy in Wallace.

  “Monday 7. Stopped in Wallace.

  “Tuesday 8. Slept with Franklin in Pond City.

  “Wednesday, September 9, 1868. Prepared to leave in the morning of the 10th.

  “Thursday 10. Left Wallace for Sheridan. Mexicans had a fight with Indians. Two of them were killed. We took up the Indians’ trail leading north. Found two wagons and cattle, which the Indians drove from the Mexicans.

  “Friday 11. Lost trail. Marched on.” He looked up, grinning a bit. “I didn’t write anything more down till the fifteenth.”

  “Go ahead, Slinger. I think it’s good.”

  “Do you?”

  “I really do.”

  He cleared his throat. “Tuesday, September 15, 1868. Our grubb is nearly out.

  “Wednesday 16. Seen signal fire on a hill three miles off in evening late.

  “Thursday 17,” the youngster read, then paused. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he choked down the galling remembrance of it. “About 12 Indians carched on us. Stampeded seven horses. Ten minutes after about 600 Indians attacked us. Killed Beecher, Culver and Wilson. Wounded nineteen men and killed all the horses. We was without grubb and water all day. Dug holes in the sand…” He paused again, his eyes moist. “Dug holes in the sand with our hands.”

  “You don’t have to read more if you don’t want, Slinger.”

  He smiled at the Irishman through the glistening eyes. “Thanks, but I ain’t got much left to go. Friday, September 18, 1868. In the night I dug my hole deeper. Cut meat off the horses and hung it up on the bushes. Indians made a charge on us at daybreak, but retreated. Kept shooting nearly all day. They put up a white flag. Left us at 9 o’clock in the evening. Rained all night.

  “Saturday 19. The Indians came back again. Kept sharp-shooting all day. Two boys started for Fort Wallace. Rained all night.

  “Sunday 20. Dr. Mooers died last night. Raining part of the day. Snow about one inch thick. Indians kept sharp-shooting.” Slinger looked up from his journal. “You remember Monday, don’t you, Mr. Donegan?”

  “Monday?” he replied, his mind squeezing on it, trying to remember. Some things so foggy, others as clear as rinsed crystal.

  “Day we went to scalp the three Injuns.”

  “Yeah. I remember now.”

  “Some of the fellas give me hard time. And you … you helped me.”

  Seamus did remember then. He grinned, feeling a bit renewed. “The scalps. Yes.”

  “Monday, September 21, 1868. Scalped three Indians which were found about fifteen feet from my hole concealed in the grass.

  “Tuesday 22. Killed a coyote and ate him all up.” His eyes rose from that last journal entry. “Can’t for the life of me figure out what to write for today.”

  Seamus smiled gently. “Why don’t you wait till evening?”

  Sigmund closed the journal slowly. “S’pose you’re right… ’bout waiting.”

  “In the meantime, let me recite something I memorized, last night. You like poetry?”

  “Never read much of it to know if I like it or not.”

  “I … I always liked poetry. Irish poets mostly,” Seamus replied, his eyes wistful as they gazed upon the far horizon shimmering beneath the late afternoon sun.

  “I’d … like to hear the poem, Mr. Donegan.”

  Seamus gazed at the youngster a moment, then away again. “Like I said, I read it last night. In the major’s pit. Forsyth wrote it himself.”

  “The major’s writing poetry?”

  “I don’t figure he’d want it to get out, Slinger … least not to everyone. But, he let me read what he’d been writing in his little book, ’cause he knows I can read.”

  Shlesinger leaned forward, his red-rimmed eyes showing fatigue like all the rest, yet an eager curiosity lit within them all the same.

  Donegan began:

  “When the foe charged on the breastworks

  With the madness of despair,

  And the bravest souls were tested,

  The little Jew was there.

  “When the weary dozed on duty

  Or the wounded needed care,

  When another shot was called for,

  The little Jew was there.

  “With the festering dead around them,

  Shedding poison in the air,

  When the crippled chieftain ordered,

  The little Jew was there.”*

  The Irishman gazed now at the youngster, finding him wide-eyed. Eventually the stunned youth spoke.

  “He … the major’s talking ’bout me, ain’t he?”

  “With words that would make any man proud, Slinger. That’s why I’ll cover your backside any time. You’ve proved yourself a man.”

  “You mean that … honest, Mr. Donegan?”

  He nodded, grinning. “Every word of it. I’m proud to know you … fight alongside you, meself.”

  Slinger scrambled over, presenting his powder-smudged hand to Donegan, dragging his floppy hat from his head.

  “I’m proud I fought alongside you … and your uncle, Irishman.”

  They shook. Then Seamus leaned back into his little patch of shade beneath the blanket he had spread over outstretched willow-limbs. Closing his eyes.

  “Think I’ll … sleep for a while, Slinger … you don’t mind.”

  Wallace is more than a hundred miles away. Might as well be ten thousand for all you can do about. And Jennie’s farther still …

  Beneath both tired eyes sagged pouches as if Seamus had been stung by hornets.

  Not a bleeming soul you can name would claim to give a blessed damn about this fight that’s turned into a struggle to stay alive. On this island that’ll likely be the grave of us all …

  The big floppy-brimmed hat kept most of the troublesome flies from his face. Yet they and the hot-footed red gnats still found his ears and neck, and any bare skin he had overlooked.

  Blessed goddamned river … in the middle of hell. Ain’t leading nowhere. River like this just brings a man’s thinking back on himself again …

  The flies buzzed, the gnats droned. Every time he shifted the hat slightly, dozing off, the late sun’s rays crept beneath the brim to slash at his face. That merciless light shimmered off the ridges and the sandy riverbed itself, dazzling, making his eyes water until he fell asleep.

  * * *

  In that pre-dawn darkness of the
twenty-third, Captain Carpenter had rousted his company in the bracing darkness, informing them they had no more than a half-hour for breakfast and to prepare themselves to stand to horse.

  Here and there above that company of black faces a star peeked through the cloudy sky as a gusty, cold wind whipped the collars of their tunics when Lieutenant Orleman gave the command.

  “Stand to horse! At ease, boys. The captain wants a word with you.”

  Carpenter stepped forward, wiping a hand across his mustache to free the last drops of that final cup of coffee Reuben Waller had poured for him. He didn’t know how to begin, really. Not knowing where they were headed for sure. He had pored over the Forsyth map again and again, studying that big, black X Forsyth had planted there. Knowing the courier said the scouts were on a dry fork of the Republican. Hell, there were a lot of dry forks of that river.

  And worst of all, Louis H. Carpenter wasn’t sure what he was leading his men into.

  “By now most of you’ve heard where we’re heading this morning,” he began, shuffling a boot. “Don’t need to tell any of you how bad those white men probably been shot up by the Cheyenne and Sioux been running crazed round this country.”

  Louis watched his two lieutenants smile, shifting their belts. He figured they were ready. But, what of these men who have never had themselves a real scrap of it before?

  “But I figure we’re their best bet for staying alive, men. There’s no veterans among you to know what we’re heading into, but it’s time H Company showed the army what it’s made of. We’re going to make a hard march of it … doing what horse soldiers do best.”

  The Negro troopers hollered and hooted, cheering their loudest, knowing they were at ease for this talk before climbing into the saddles. Their sudden, enthusiastic response caused their captain to choke on his next words.

  He turned to Dr. Fitzgerald. “My standing orders from Bankhead are that if we run into trouble, I’m to send you and an escort back to Wallace.”

  “I don’t really think——”

  “But, I’m forgetting I ever heard that order, Surgeon. You’ll ride with us.”

  “Now you’re talking, Carpenter!”

  “What of our supply train, Captain?” asked Lieutenant Banzhaf.

  “Going with us as well.” He turned back to his soldiers, who came suddenly straight. Every mouth of a sudden silent. Carpenter stepped forward two more steps, grinding one fist inside a palm.

  “Men, I fought with Major George A. Forsyth at The Wilderness. I was there when he took three rebel minnieballs in the Shenandoah. So … I think you all know how I personally feel about this march to rescue the major’s command. And I’m sure all of you will remember it was soldiers like Major Forsyth who helped Bill Sherman and Phil Sheridan win the war for the North. None of you have to look back that far to remember life in the South for a black man before the war.”

  “Captain?”

  He turned to his orderly. “Yes, Corporal Waller.”

  “I think I speak for all the men, sir. We want to be the ones find the major and his scouts. Wherever you lead us, by damned, sir—we gonna follow you.”

  Reuben turned toward the rows of eager black men restless beside their sleek horses. “That right, men?”

  “Hurrah!”

  “Hurrah for Forsyth!”

  “Hurrah for Captain Carpenter!”

  With their cheers ringing in his ears, Louis Carpenter turned and flung a hand to his chief of scouts, J. J. Peate, sending him and his contingent of white civilian trackers out as he climbed aboard his mount.

  “Mount!” came the cry from First Lieutenant Orleman.

  “Mount!” bawled the first sergeant.

  There was a squeak of saddle leather and a rattle of bit-chains, a shuffle of hooves and a snort from the animals.

  “Bring ’em around and point ’em north, Lieutenant,” Carpenter ordered. “We’re marching at a gallop!”

  Chapter 40

  Reuben watched Captain Carpenter take off his hat and wipe his brow as he climbed the knoll while the sun’s light sank from the sky.

  On the twenty-third they had put thirty-five grueling miles behind them, alternating between a walk and a trot, with pickets sent out wide on both flanks, before Carpenter finally ordered them into camp well after dark. On the twenty-fourth, they had been turned out before the moon sank from the sky for a cold breakfast, taking no time to boil coffee. Orders passed quietly to saddle and stand to horse, while they ate the hard-bread and a handful of the bacon come down from the supply wagons.

  Few of the men ate. The majority of the buffalo soldiers took only a piece of bread for their bellies, knowing they would not have another chance to eat until a noon-rest. Most of them had no real appetite now anyway, thinking on those men on that island, somewhere off in the distance. With nothing to eat but horses killed by screaming Indians eight days gone now. If imagining the stench of decaying horseflesh was not enough for a man to lose his appetite, then the thought of eating fat bacon while those white men had no food surely was.

  Waller had been proud that almost all save for the most arrogant had turned down the bacon. Deciding to save the side-meat for the major’s men.

  Throughout that long, hot day, Corporal Reuben Waller had ridden a succession of mounts, required to ride at least twice as many miles as the rest of the cavalry.

  Under orders of his company commander, Reuben had provided the communication link between Carpenter’s ground-eating cavalry and Lieutenant Banzhaf’s wagon-train. The orderly was to stay on high ground when possible to keep Banzhaf’s train in sight. And when it disappeared from the view of the rear of the cavalry columns, Waller was faced with riding back and forth between the two throughout the rest of the day, carrying word between the two commands.

  Not long after nine o’clock, the lieutenant’s teamsters finally threw their weight against their squealing brakes, halting in a camp chosen by J. J. Peate’s white scouts near some shallow water holes. The wagons were quickly corraled, mules picketed, and men rolled into their blankets without argument.

  Company H, 10th U.S. Negro Cavalry, grabbed what sleep they could before setting off across the trackless plains in search of a nameless sandy island on one of the many dry forks of the Republican River.

  * * *

  Eight.

  With that last notch he carved just after sunrise, Seamus Donegan counted eight notches in the stock of the Spencer carbine they had issued him at Hays. September 24. The eighth dawning of the hot sun over this stinking island.

  It had been a few days now, he could not be sure how many, that he had felt any hunger. Grown used to the gnawing pinch of it. Only thirst now. Even his appetite for whiskey gone. Knowing he would gamble most anything for a cup filled with clear, cold water. Not the half-warm, murky fluid that seeped into the bottom of their rifle-pits that reminded him of the black-bean soup served him in that little tavern in Boston Towne, even the alkaline water they took from the river itself.

  The last two nights the hills had been dotted with their share of coyotes and wolves, lured into the valley from the surrounding prairie by the strong stench of rotting carrion. He remembered thinking that the Cheyenne must have run off. Else the four-legged predators would dare not come in to sit and wait on their haunches, just out of range of his Henry as if they sensed how far his rifle could shoot.

  He had tried anyway, until Sharp Grover told him to stop wasting cartridges on the far-away wolves. But he was angry, he had told Grover. And the army scout had eventually walked away, saying Donegan wasn’t angry. Saying Donegan was just going mad.

  The sun and the wait. The sun and the hunger. The sun and the not-knowing had a way of doing that to a man. Watching the others, watching yourself die a little bit more each day.

  Sometime before dawn, Seamus had awakened slowly, startled to hear the soft voice of one of the men singing low, cracking in emotion or hunger or loss of blood.

  “Shall we gather at the river
/>
  The beautiful, the beautiful river.

  Shall we gather at the river,

  That flows by the throne of God.”

  Donegan had wept, easily there in the dark. Laying his hand on the blanket-covered sandy mound beside him. Where he had scooped sand over the body of Liam O’Roarke.

  Soon enough more of these men would be dead as well. Men who should not have perished. But would for want of attention to their horrible wounds. Like Farley’s arm. Morton’s eye blown out. Others stinking with infection.

  His own arm itched. He touched the oozy ribbon of flesh with his fingers, brushing maggots off without looking. No longer could he stand to look at the wound, nor the dull, red streaks marching farther and farther up the arm each day.

  By afternoon the bright sun was tracking a little more to the south, it seemed. Then he remembered it was getting on in the month of September. Soon it would be autumn. Then another winter come behind it.

  The sun would feel good on his skin come that time of the year. He shuddered, recalling having his fill of cold on that trip he made from Fort Phil Kearny to Fort C. F. Smith, enough cold to make his bones ache for a lifetime.

  Good to feel the sun now as it eased down from mid-sky, reflecting off the sandy, umber bluffs like light off a quicksilver mirror.

  He dabbed sweat from his tortured eyes, feeling them swim with the intense radiance, then leaned back under his willow and blanket shelter. The red gnats with the hot, stinging feet were at him again.

  Blessed Mother of Virgins …

  The sun was going down at last on this eighth day. He could take his sweaty hat off his head. That little place between crown and his skull was like the tiny brick oven where his mother baked black beans back in County Kilkenny. Hot enough to melt his brain.

  Like Grover said … perhaps you are going mad, Seamus …

  He closed his eyes, too weak to hold them open now, laughing to himself as he imagined him slipping into insanity, like trying to hold onto a steep slope of mud. With no place to get a grip. No way to hang on.

  Seamus laughed to himself, sensing his brain turning to that soft, thick, amber syrup that was his favorite hot-buttered rum back in that little tavern in Boston-Towne-by-the-Bay.

  * * *