North and South: The North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  Bent whispered, “Get out of my sight.”

  Doubled over, Charles ran toward the edge of the cornfield a few minutes later. From the ravines on the far side, a shot boomed. The ball hissed through the tassels above him. Kneeling, he tore off a couple of leaves and rolled them between his palms.

  Dry as powder. Now if he could persuade Mrs. Lantzman to turn her horses loose—the Comanches would get them anyway—they might have a chance, although not much of one.

  47

  WESTWARD, ONLY A THIN rind of sun showed above the foothills. The light was rapidly fading from the land and sky. In his mind Charles had gone over the escape plan and the signals involved half a dozen times.

  An hour ago, following his instructions, troopers had built a cook fire halfway between the house and the field, where the Indians would be sure to see it. Inside, Mrs. Lantzman and her daughter had wrapped rags around the ends of cottonwood branches and soaked the rags in lamp oil. The Lantzman boys had saddled horses for the family and were now in position behind the hay bales on the far side of the building, prepared to make the dangerous dash to the corral.

  Corporal Ostrander slipped through the shadows to Charles’s side. “Sir, everything’s ready.”

  “All right, it’s time. We—”

  He stopped as Ostrander’s startled eyes focused somewhere beyond him. Charles turned. From the farmhouse door Bent spoke.

  “I’m going.”

  The captain had been the sole holdout. Charles tried to extend an olive branch by replying in a mild tone. “Fine, sir.”

  It did no good. “I’m going principally for the satisfaction of seeing you thrown out of the Army in disgrace.”

  Charles’s gaze hardened. “Whatever you say, sir. But I must respectfully remind you that I have temporarily assumed command.”

  Did the captain’s eyes twinkle then? Charles’s spine crawled. Bent almost smiled as he drew on the fringed gauntlets he favored.

  “You have made me quite aware of that, Lieutenant. All day I have watched you busily undermining my authority and turning the men against me. Enjoy the command. It’s your last.”

  He stared at Charles without blinking. Across the creek the besiegers whooped and thumped their hide drum.

  Martha Lantzman appeared with the unlit torches. Holding them down close to the ground so as not to draw the attention of the sentinels beyond the field, she passed them one by one to Ostrander. He in turn gave them to men pretending to lounge at the cook fire. In the darkness at either end of the house, horses whickered; the rest of the troopers were in the saddle and were holding the mounts of the men responsible for lighting the torches.

  “Find your horses,” he said to Mrs. Lantzman and her daughter. They hurried away. He looked pointedly at the captain, who incredibly seemed to laugh, then followed after them.

  Charles turned and studied the cornfield, wondering whether he—all of them—might die out there. Unexpectedly, like a river current in spring flood, a powerful will to live surged in him. Reckoning that the situation was almost hopeless anyway, he realized he had precious little to lose. He therefore could, and should, act boldly. The dirty bearded mask of his face cracked open and his teeth shone as he forced a smile.

  Some of the men saw, and they too began to smile. Charles realized he had discovered one of the secrets of being a good officer in a tight spot. Perhaps he’d live to put it to use again.

  He looked at each of the others to show the moment had come. Then he thrust his revolver up over his head and fired.

  At the sound of the shot, all activity stopped in the Comanche camp. Then Charles heard a commotion among the horses in the corral and quickly thereafter one of the Lantzman boys yelling, “Hah!”

  The horses galloped out. Some of them splashed into the creek, just before the first Comanche shot rang out. The Indians had no clear targets, but they obviously knew something was afoot.

  Charles fired twice more. In response to the signal, the troopers plunged the torches into the embers. The rags ignited with soft explosions. Each man dashed to a prearranged place on the right or left and there set fire to the corn, the plan being to leave a fifty-foot-wide lane in the center. Charles counted on the lack of wind to help keep that lane open long enough for them to escape.

  He sprinted to his horse and mounted. Flames were already shooting up above the dry stalks; the field was burning faster than he’d anticipated. He rode to the entrance of the lane, reined to one side, and slashed downward with his revolver, as he shouted:

  “Column of twos, trot march, ho!”

  A line of men rode from each corner of the house, quickly forming the double column. Charles had put the most experienced riders in front and the Lantzmans at the most protected position, in the center.

  By twos the men and horses pounded into the lane. The spreading fire already threatened the entrance. The fainter sound of splashing water told Charles the Comanches were crossing the creek. “Hurry, damn it!” he yelled to the men who had handled the torches. They mounted and trotted into the lane. Charles felt the heat of the fire on his back. Bent’s horse shied, but he forced it ahead, following the double column.

  Flames leaped from both sides of the lane and interlaced across it. A painted Indian rode into sight at one corner of the house. Charles squeezed off a shot and dropped him. Then, applying spurs, he drove his roan through the fire. He bent low over his mount’s neck. Ahead, fire had narrowed the lane to a width of ten feet. Bent was some twenty yards in front of him, and beyond the captain Charles could see little except the bobbing forms of his men, silhouettes against the brightness.

  A lick of flame touched Bent’s sleeve. Smoke curled from the fabric. The captain yelped and slapped the fire out. His horse carried him from the burning field into the dark, where Ostrander was supposed to hold the column together and lead it forward at a gallop. Charles hoped the corporal was still alive.

  Smoke billowed around him now. The fire consumed the corn with a roar. The lane was nearly closed directly ahead. Charles bent so low he thought his ribs might crack. He whispered encouragement to the roan as the flame barrier loomed.

  The roan leaped as fearlessly as the best Academy jumper. Light blinded Charles. Heat scorched his cheeks. Then they were through into cool air and darkness.

  The roan came down surely, but hard. Charles was almost unseated. He held on and a second later a nightmare face—yellow-clayed cheeks, white eyes—came rushing at him from the right.

  A Comanche sentinel, on foot. The Indian hacked downward with his trade hatchet, striking for Charles’s thigh. Charles applied spurs and the roan sprang on. The hatchet missed Charles but buried in the animal’s flank, cutting clear through the massive muscle and severing an artery. The roan bellowed and reared. Charles tumbled off.

  As he fell he managed to shove his revolver against the Comanche’s chest and pull the trigger. The explosion blew the Indian backward into the burning corn. In seconds he was afire from head to foot.

  Charles lay pinned by the heaving, bellowing horse. He dragged his leg free, then put his last two shots into the dying roan’s head.

  The corn crackled as it burned. Charles looked around but saw no sign of his men. Panic set in. He began running after the others. Recalling that the last rider in the column was the captain, he shouted, “Bent! Bent, help me!”

  He staggered on. Had the captain heard him? Had anyone?

  He turned to observe the fire. It had spread, building into a high wall of light half a mile wide. As he watched, the flames swallowed one edge of Lantzman’s field and swept to the prairie grass beyond, igniting it instantly.

  A humorless smile jerked the corners of his grimy mouth. He had counted on the fire to block the charge of the Comanches who came across the creek. Beyond the flames he could hear them milling and shouting angrily. The sentinels on this side had represented the smaller, more acceptable risk. He had slain one of them, but there must be others—

  “Lieutenant, lookou
t!”

  The voice belonged to a trooper who had heard his cry for help and doubled back. Turning toward the dim figure of the mounted man, Charles let out a gasp. Another Comanche came loping at him from the darkness with a lance.

  Charles pivoted to present his right side, then raised and parried with his empty gun. The barrel diverted the thrust just enough to prevent a fatal injury. The iron lance head tore through his sleeve into his shoulder.

  The Indian’s run had carried him to within a foot of Charles, who now pulled his knife with his left hand. The painted mouth contorted; the Indian couldn’t pull back quickly enough. Charles rammed the knife to the hilt into his stomach, then yanked it out.

  The Comanche lurched sideways. Rage overcoming his agony, he tried a final thrust with the lance. Charles jumped away and waited for the Indian to fall. After an endless moment, he did.

  Reaction set in then. Nausea, trembling, blurred vision. Charles couldn’t identify the soldier who had heard his hail, ridden back, and shouted a warning. “Bent?” He shielded his eyes with his forearm but still couldn’t see.

  “No, sir, it’s Private Tannen. Captain Bent rode on ahead.”

  After he heard me call for help.

  “Climb up, sir,” said the private. “We’re going to make it—all of us.”

  They followed the fleeing column. Charles held the private’s waist and rode with his eyes closed, his silence blended of shock and relief.

  The Comanches pursued them through the darkness for nearly an hour, but never came within musket range. Soon their fading cries signaled their weariness of the profitless sport. They melted away into the summer night—probably heading back to round up the Lantzman horses.

  After another hour of hard riding, the column stopped to rest. Miraculously, the only injuries were a couple of flesh wounds similar to the one Charles had suffered. Despite their losses the Lantzmans were jubilant, and so were the troopers, who laughed and talked boisterously. Several congratulated Charles on the success of his daring plan.

  After Charles ordered scouts out, a trooper offered him a swig of lightning whiskey. Charles didn’t say a word about the impropriety of that or inquire about the source of the stuff. He drank gratefully, then poured some of the raw spirits on his gashed shoulder. With Mrs. Lantzman’s help he bound the wound with a kerchief. Through all of this, Bent kept aloof.

  Soon Charles felt considerably better. He was tired but in possession of his faculties again. He re-formed the column, and they covered the next two miles at a walk. This brought them to an ideal campsite in a ravine whose open end was easily guarded.

  Bedrolls were broken out for the first time since they had left Camp Cooper. Mesquite wood gathered by foragers was lit to keep off insects and the night’s chill. Charles squatted by one of several small fires, gnawing on a square of hardtack. He had seldom tasted anything as delicious.

  A misshapen shadow stretched across the fire suddenly. He glanced up, drew in a sharp breath. Bent’s expression was controlled, masklike. He had again assumed command, which Charles did not contest. He had no desire to embarrass the captain any further. He had said nothing to the men about Bent’s near hysteria inside the farmhouse and in fact had taken pains to create the impression that it was the captain who had placed him in charge of the escape effort.

  “I want to commend you on your behavior during the escape, Lieutenant. You displayed exceptional courage.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Charles wondered about the reason for the unexpected compliment. He could find none until he noticed five troopers relaxing at the next fire. A moment ago they had been discussing the action at Lantzman’s. Now they were quiet, listening. Bent had been speaking so that they would be sure to hear.

  The captain glanced at the listeners and began walking in the other direction. He motioned Charles to his side. Reluctantly, Charles followed.

  “At the farm,” Bent resumed, “perhaps both of us were undone by anger. When danger threatens, no man can be expected to think clearly at all times.”

  I would say that you could expect that of a good leader, Charles thought, but remained silent. There was no point in provoking Bent just now; in his clumsy way, he seemed to be trying to establish a truce.

  They left the perimeter of the firelight, walking in silence. For the first time Charles smelled whiskey. That Bent carried a secret supply didn’t surprise him.

  When they were safely away from the five listeners, Bent stopped and faced him.

  “Of course, the success of the action doesn’t expunge your guilt. You disobeyed a direct order.”

  Charles felt his bile rise. Now he understood the captain’s scheme. Bent wanted some of the men to hear him compliment his subordinate, as a normal commander would. That dispensed with, he was now delivering his real message in private. Bent’s voice hardened.

  “Charges must and will be filed against you.”

  Charles sensed, then clearly grasped, what Bent had earlier realized. The angry exchange with the captain and his near breakdown had been witnessed only by the Lantzmans. They would not be called to testify at a court-martial unless Charles insisted on it; and if they were called, the prosecutor could easily demolish their qualifications as witnesses, noting first that they were civilians, with no comprehension of military matters. He could then point out that grief over the loss of two loved ones made their judgment and their statements even more suspect.

  Charles saw the trap closing. He would have no support for what he had done, no one to state that temporarily relieving Bent had been imperative. Dismally, he realized he himself had helped set the trap. Trying to spare his superior, he had said nothing to any of the men about the captain’s behavior. Bent could exaggerate and color his testimony any way he chose. Finally there was the matter of rank. A court would tend to believe the word of an experienced captain over that of a brevet second lieutenant.

  Firelight brushed Bent’s profile as he turned away. He allowed himself a little smile.

  “I think you, not I, will be the chief casualty of this expedition. Good evening, Lieutenant.”

  Sleepless and tense, Charles lay with his head on his saddle. The fire had gone out. The cold of the night stiffened his bones. His bandaged shoulder throbbed.

  How stupid of him to think even for a moment that Bent wanted to make peace. Charles was the target of an unfounded hate so deep and so venomous it defied explanation, except in one way. Bent was a madman. He had suspected it before, but the harrowing events involving the Lantzmans had placed the matter beyond all doubt.

  He shuddered, then plopped his hat over his eyes to block out the starlight. It didn’t help. He lay awake for hours, hearing the captain’s voice, seeing the captain’s face.

  48

  BENT PLANNED TO COVER the distance to Camp Cooper in a single day’s ride, but around three in the afternoon the younger Lantzman boy came down with acute stomach cramps. His mother pleaded with the captain to stop for a while so that the boy could rest. A few minutes became an hour. By then a thunderstorm was muttering in the north. Bent ordered a lean-to built for the civilians, deciding that, since no danger threatened, they would camp for the night and go the rest of the way tomorrow. The men grumbled about the decision. Bent paid no attention; he was sore from riding, and he welcomed the chance to reassert his authority.

  Wind whipped the grass, and dust and debris blew through the air for half an hour. But no rain fell. The storm passed by, leaving the troopers more disgruntled than ever. They could have pushed on, been in their bunks before taps.

  Camp had been pitched in a level area beside a dry creek bed. A few cottonwoods lined the bank, and among these Bent had put down his blanket and built his fire. Normally any other officers would have shared the fire, but Charles knew better than to approach.

  The lean-to stood on open ground about twenty feet from the cottonwood grove where Bent sat drinking, hidden by shadows as the night deepened. After two long drinks from his flask,
he felt more relaxed. He savored the smell of firewood, the sounds of insects and of the men conversing softly. He drank again. His mind drifted into colorful visions of Alexander, the Mongol Khans, Bonaparte.

  He had already excused his own behavior at the farm, placing the blame on other factors: A shortage of men. The unfortunate killing of the troopers sent for reinforcements. The hostility of his lieutenants.

  Well, he’d eliminated one of the traitorous officers, and he’d soon get rid of the other. He imagined the effect on Orry Main when he heard that his relative had been cashiered.

  Chuckling, Bent again raised the flask. The sound of voices at the Lantzman lean-to attracted his attention. He remained motionless in the concealment of the trees, watching.

  “Why do I have to lie there when I can’t sleep, Mama? Let me walk a little while.”

  Carrying the long Augustin musket, Mrs. Lantzman followed her daughter out of the lean-to. “All right, but don’t go far. And take this.”

  “I don’t need it,” Martha retorted. “There’s no more danger. The Delaware scout said so.”

  Cross-legged beside the dying fire, her older brother laughed and flung his arms wide. “With all these soldiers around, Martha wants to be defenseless.”

  “Take it back!” She fisted her hand.

  “Walk if you must, but let’s have no more of that kind of talk,” Mrs. Lantzman said, unsmiling. She planted the stock of the musket on the ground and watched her full-bosomed daughter walk through the rustling grass. She let Martha go three steps before she softly called:

  “Not that way. You’ll disturb the captain.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”

  The girl changed direction, moving toward the perimeter of the cottonwoods rather than straight into them. She was grateful for her mother’s warning. She didn’t like the captain, with his coarse, fat face and his small eyes that watched her so closely. She knew the reason he watched her. She was old enough to be vaguely titillated by it, yet still young enough to be frightened.