by Dee Brown
Without exception the scouts volunteered, their voices mingling at the end in a resounding shout.
Donovan raised his hand. “My three men and I will go along with them, of course.”
“I was counting on you to guide them, Mr. Donovan,” the captain replied dryly. “Now, Lieutenant Orleman, you will select thirty good troopers from both platoons. Look for the soundest horses and the best shots. I’d like the scouts to lead off with Donovan as guide, followed by the ambulance and Dr. Fitzgerald, with Lieutenant Orleman and his platoon closing the rear. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Banzhaf will bring on the wagons—the men on that island will need the supplies they carry. Lieutenant Banzhaf, I want those wagons kept rolling. If some mules begin to fail, you may cut loose two or three wagons and abandon them, rather than slow to the pace of the weakest animals. Naturally the rear is going to fall far behind the first section, perhaps several miles, and I’m going to need a courier to keep me informed as to where the wagons are and if they are in any danger. Trooper Waller! Where are you?”
Waller came forward and the captain said brusquely: “Trooper Waller, stand by for special courier duty. Now, you civilian gentlemen, as soon as you’ve swallowed your rations and taken a sip of water, prepare to move out. Lieutenant Orleman, you may start assembling your platoon. Dr. Fitzgerald and I will go back and personally supervise the loading of the ambulance with hardtack, coffee, and bacon.”
A few minutes later, Jack Donovan rode out with the scouts, turning off the stage road and heading straight northward. Three hundred yards behind them rolled the ambulance, careening from side to side as its narrow wheels bounced over tufts of bunch grass. In its rear, just out of reach of the dust, rode Captain Carpenter and Lieutenant Orleman, followed by thirty selected men of H Troop. The column’s gait was an alternate walk and trot that with the passing of every hour brought them closer to Major Forsyth’s besieged scouts.
For the first hour, Trooper Waller rode a few yards to the right of the guidon; then at a signal from Captain Carpenter he dropped back to the rear. His instructions were to keep Lieutenant Banzhaf’s wagon train in view as long as possible. When it was no longer visible, he was to begin riding back and forth between the two sections, changing mounts when necessary, always keeping a close watch along the rim of the entire horizon, and reporting to the lieutenant or the captain anything out of the ordinary.
Trooper Waller was thinking again about how lucky he was to be horse-soldiering with Troop H. He was proud of his assignment and pleased that Captain Carpenter believed in him. Sometimes the captain was as rough as a cob, but he was for certain one white soldier a black soldier could put his trust in—that Captain Louis Carpenter.
20
Captain Louis Carpenter
September 23–25
UNTIL SUNDOWN CAPTAIN CARPENTER kept the first section of his column moving in its monotonous rhythm of walks and trots, broken hourly by short halts. He would have marched on for another hour had not one of the scouts reported back that a pair of water holes just ahead offered the last camping site for several miles.
As the wagon train was only four or five miles in the rear, he sent Trooper Waller back with orders to Lieutenant Banzhaf to bring the wagons on in the darkness. By nine o’clock the two sections were rejoined, the wagons corraled, horses and mules picketed, guards out. Every man free of duties was grateful for a chance to roll up in his blanket for a short night of rest and sleep.
Before dawn Carpenter was up, waking the bugler and ordering cooking fires started. At daylight the scouts moved out, followed by the ambulance and the first section of troopers.
In less than half an hour, Jack Donovan came galloping back to report fresh Indian sign. Motioning to the first set of fours to join them as an escort, Carpenter hurried forward with Donovan. Half a mile ahead, they found the other scouts still poking around a hastily abandoned Indian camp.
“They vamoosed in a hurry,” Donovan said, pointing to three saddles that had been left by a willow clump. They were pad saddles, fully equipped with stirrups and girths, and Carpenter knew that only badly frightened Indians would have left them behind.
“My guess is there were more squaws than warriors in this camp,” Carpenter said. “Survivors of the fight with Major Forsyth, perhaps. Probably heard our bugle this morning and thought we were charging down on them. What do you think, Donovan?”
“Makes sense. But if they’ve quit the battlefield, what’s happened to Forsyth’s Scouts?”
Carpenter shook his head. “If we’re going to find out today,” he replied, “we’d better get moving. Lead your men out.”
He waited with his escort until Lieutenant Orleman arrived with the ambulance. His first order was to the bugler; there would be no more bugle calls until further notice.
Late in the evening Carpenter sighted a line of willows and small cottonwoods, and when he raised his field glass he saw the scouts halted there, evidently waiting for him. With his escort he hurried forward. As he had guessed, the willows edged a stream bed, but there was not even a trickle running, only a few water holes fed by seepage under the sands.
Donovan looked confident. “This must be the Dry-Fork, or the Arickaree as Sharp Grover calls it,” he said. “Our island should be about fifteen or twenty-miles upstream.”
Carpenter called a short noon halt to let the horses drink from the water holes. He then sent Trooper Waller back to Lieutenant Banzhaf with instructions to turn the wagon train northwestward, keeping the Dry Fork on his right, but remaining some distance from it because of gullies and ridges near the watercourse.
For the next fifteen miles Carpenter rode with Donovan. Whenever they approached a ridge or small rise, both men pushed their horses forward eagerly, hoping to see some sign that would assure them they were nearing the island. “It just don’t look right to me, Captain,” Donovan finally admitted. “The stream’s narrowing too fast. That island’s north, not west the way we’re going. I’m sure of it.”
Carpenter unfolded the worn map that Forsyth had given Jack Stilwell; with restrained impatience he examined it for the hundredth time. “This map shows only one fork running into the Republican River.”
“I’ll wager a month’s pay there’s two, maybe three forks,” Donovan insisted.
Carpenter squinted at the sun, hating it for being so low in the sky. “I wanted to find Forsyth before dark.” He turned in his saddle and beckoned hastily to the troopers to close up on the guidon. They had become strung out because of the ambulance which had to detour around some of the deeper washes. “We’ll ride to that next ridge and then bear north,” he said, and urged his horse forward again.
At the first easy crossing beyond the ridge, they left the Dry Fork and faced northward. An hour before sunset they struck a downslope and in a few minutes were in thick grass, with another willow-fringed valley before them.
“Indian trail,” Donovan cried. “Over to the right!” When Carpenter reined up beside the scout, he was surprised at the breadth of the trail. The other men gathered around, dismounted, carefully examined the markings, and then began offering various opinions as to the size of the party. “At least two thousand ponies,” Donovan declared. “And plenty of travois scratches. A whole village. They came down the valley to graze their ponies here and then headed north.”
“This must be the Arickaree Fork.” Carpenter’s voice was harsh. For the second time that day he was depressed by his failure to defeat time and distance. If the Indians were leaving, he wondered, what had happened to Forsyth’s Scouts?
“How old is the trail?” he asked.
“Only a few hours,” Donovan replied, and one of the other scouts volunteered an opinion that the Indians had crossed no earlier than noon.
“Let’s move on to the river and have a look at it,” Carpenter said, and put his horse into a slow walk. Two thousand ponies, he thought, means a thousand or at least several hundred warriors. They could take my thirty troopers quicker than they did Forsyt
h’s fifty scouts. He shook off his apprehension and studied the lay of the land.
Less than a mile to the west was a hill that could be easily defended. Or if the wagons could be brought up and corraled, they could camp by the river which had a good flow of water in it. He glanced at the sun, was dismayed at how close it was to the horizon, and then made a quick decision. “Lieutenant Orleman, take half your platoon and ride back to the train. Tell Banzhaf you’re bringing the wagons in here before dark if you have to lash the mules all the way.”
Orleman looked surprised, but wasted no time in choosing his men; they wheeled and started back at a fast trot.
Carpenter dismounted, removed his boots and socks, and waded into the stream. He joined Surgeon Fitzgerald on a sand bar, and the two men sat cooling their feet until the sun was level with the horizon. He called Donovan then, and ordered him to mount up the scouts. “We’re going to cross over and climb that hill.” He turned to a sergeant who was resting by the ambulance. “Sergeant, station your men in defensive positions. We’ll be back before dark.”
The hill was not as steep as it had seemed from the river, and in a few minutes Carpenter, the surgeon, and the scouts were almost to the summit. Under cover of the last ridge-fold they halted, left their mounts with two horse holders, and began climbing on foot. Just before reaching the top Carpenter bent low, peering over the crest. He sucked in his breath. For a second he thought he was looking upon a battlefield. Below him was a lesser hill, its eastward slope dotted with dead horses and burial scaffolds.
“Dead Indians,” Dr. Fitzgerald said. “They lost more than a few.”
With his field glass, Carpenter carefully studied the panorama before him, following the freshly beaten trail of the Indians until it faded into blue twilight, tracing the winding river hopefully for the besieged island. Nothing moved anywhere; no fires glimmered; there was no sound but the whisper of a rising wind against tall grass.
After summoning the horseholders to bring up the mounts, Carpenter posted guards on the hilltop, and rode across to the burial slope. Each blanketed body lay on a pole scaffold, feet pointed to the east. Beside each scaffold were one or more slain horses that had belonged to the warriors.
“What a waste of horseflesh,” Carpenter said.
“They believe a dead warrior needs a horse to ride to the happy hunting grounds,” Fitzgerald replied. “Who knows?”
Most of the scaffolds appeared to be three or four days old. To make certain that the dead had been killed in battle, Carpenter ordered one of the bodies brought down from its eight-foot platform. The warrior had died from carbine fire.
“Put the body back in its proper position,” Carpenter said. He heard Donovan calling his name from farther up the slope. “Over here, Captain!”
Donovan had his rifle cocked, was pointing it into a shallow ravine. Not twenty yards away stood a lone tepee of freshly tanned buffalo skins.
“What is it?” Carpenter asked.
“I don’t know. That tepee’s never been used. No soot around the smoke hole.”
“Let’s have a look.”
“I’ll cover you,” Donovan said.
Pistol in hand, Carpenter approached the silent tepee. Lifting the closed flap slowly, he peered inside. He holstered his pistol and entered. In the dim light he could see the form of a warrior wrapped in a white buffalo robe and lying on a low brush framework surrounded by weapons and a flowing war bonnet.
Carpenter lifted the buffalo robe; the Indian’s face still bore its warpaint. He has a stern and royal look, Carpenter thought, and then heard Donovan behind him. “Roman Nose?” Carpenter asked.
“Yeah.” Donovan’s voice was solemn. “That’s Roman Nose.”
Just as darkness fell the wagons arrived and crossed the river. Carpenter corraled them in a tight circle, doubled guards, and ordered the off-duty men to sleep with rifles at ready. He had trouble falling asleep. For most of the night, a cold fitful wind howled eerily, and when he did sleep he dreamed that he had found the island but all the scouts were dead, scalped, and brutally mutilated. He got up in the darkness, listening to the wind and the gentle murmur of the river, debating whether he should disturb his men so early. This is the morning of September 25, he thought. Can Forsyth’s Scouts have endured to this ninth day of siege, without food, medicine, or reinforcements? He shook Lieutenant Orleman awake and told him to prepare the column for marching before daylight.
Although there was barely any light in the sky when the scouts rode out, they had little trouble backtracking the broad trail left by the Indians. At sunup they were on the crest of a ridge, and Carpenter could follow the river’s sandy channel through his field glass. For several miles the stream made a wide bend, and the trail split into divergent tracks that cut across rolling country gashed by deep gullies.
“Donovan,” he called softly. “Have a look through this glass—at the farther bend of the stream.”
After looking for a few moments, Donovan shook his head. “I’m not quite sure, Captain, but I think the island’s a little farther up the river.” He shifted the glass slightly. “Wait a minute! Yes, by … There’s the island!” He pointed excitedly. “I can see some of the scouts. They’re still alive!”
Carpenter whirled and shouted to Lieutenant Orleman: “Take half of your platoon, Lieutenant, and escort the ambulance around by the river valley trail. I’ll take the others with the scouts and make a dash across the breaks. Let’s move out!”
He led the way down the steep slope, hooves thundering behind him, and urged his mount impatiently over the next ridge. After crossing a series of thicketed gullies, they drove hard up the last rise before the river. Here Carpenter signaled a halt so that he could scan the open country for hostiles.
Not an Indian was in sight. The tiny island seemed deserted. Overhead in the cloudy sky, buzzards were circling. A drift of wind told him why; the air was heavy with the stench of rotting flesh.
As he was turning to ask Donovan if he was certain he had seen any of Forsyth’s Scouts, his eyes caught a movement just below. A man had scurried out of a plum thicket and was running toward the island. Carpenter shouted at him, started his horse forward, and the others came on behind him at a fast trot.
Suddenly the man stopped, turned, and raised his carbine to take aim.
“Spread out! Wave your hats!” Carpenter commanded, and then bellowed at the man: “Don’t shoot! We’re friends!”
For a second the man remained frozen; then he tossed his carbine in the air and began cheering. Beyond him on the island, Carpenter saw other scouts crawling from their sand pits. Some were shouting, some running, some hobbling unsteadily. They looked like gaunt wolves.
Carpenter wondered if he had arrived too late to save his old friend, Sandy Forsyth.
21
Major George (Sandy) Forsyth
September 25
ON THE MORNING OF the ninth day of the siege, Major Forsyth lay on his canvas stretcher watching the sun rise. He knew that he was feverish and that for some days dreams and reality had blended so that he was never certain whether he was asleep or awake.
By mustering all his strength he was able to turn himself and count the row of twigs he had pressed into the side of the sand pit. There were eight. With his right hand he searched in the sand until he found another twig and added it to the row. As he closed his eyes he thought: One more day to endure.
“I brought you some soup, Major.”
He opened his eyes again and recognized Chance Whitney. The putrid odor of the soup nauseated him. “Don’t we have any more of that coyote that Slinger shot last night?” He was surprised at the irritable tone in his own voice.
“Schlesinger shot that coyote three days ago, Major,” the scout replied patiently. Whitney had large droopy eyelids that gave him a perpetually sad expression. “We boiled that coyote’s head and bones over and over till there was no shred of nutriment left. Here, take some of this watery plum jelly.”
For
syth managed to raise himself long enough to swallow the cooked plums. “Nothing left now but plums and prickly pears,” he said, and looked directly into Whitney’s mournful eyes. “If no relief comes today, Chance, I shall order all you able-bodied scouts to try to make your escape.”
Whitney shook his head. “You’ve had our answer to that proposition already, Major. Some of the boys are looking for prairie dogs this morning. We’ll make it.”
“No one should have left the island without my permission.” Forsyth’s voice was querulous.
“Mr. Grover sent them, sir. He says the Indians have gone off.”
Again Forsyth tried to raise his body on the canvas. “All of them?” He shaded his eyes to peer at the low bluffs across the Arickaree. “Even the vedette they’ve had observing us the past two days?”
“Not an Indian in sight anywhere this morning,” Whitney assured him.
Forsyth sagged back on the canvas, too weak to talk any more. He was thinking that after a while he must order the able-bodied men to try to save themselves, and then he remembered how loyally obstinant they had been—when was it, two or three days ago?—whenever it was that he gave them permission to escape.
He had warned them that the four scouts sent to Fort Wallace might have failed to get through, and that possibly no relief party would ever come. Then he had said that those who were able to go were at liberty to make a try to save themselves.
Sergeant McCall had asked: “Who will take care of the wounded?”
“Those of us who are unable to go must take our chances,” Forsyth replied.
For a moment there was a dead silence, then McCall shouted: “Never! We’ll stand by to the end, if it must be.” Martin Burke had added quickly: “Walk away and leave our wounded to them red devils! No, sir! We’ve fought together, and by heaven, if needs be we’ll die together.” As each scout refused one by one to leave, Burke picked up a long stick, tied his blue sailor jacket to it, and thrust it upright into the sand. Hands on hips, he stood back and admired it. “There,” he cried. “That’s our flag of no surrender!”