“When the bullet is cast to kill me, it will kill me,” I said. “That’s all.”
Reaching Private Pigford’s position, I knelt, much to the relief of my troops, and peered over the edge at the Indian Pigford had just killed. He lay maybe seventy-five feet from the top, with a hole in his back the size of a baseball.
“Colonel, those red devils are up to something.” Trooper Pigford echoed my own thoughts.
Pigford was right. So was Porter, our contract surgeon. The Indians were mounting some sort of attack, but if we did not get water soon, we were all done for. I rose, walking again, daring the Indians to waste their shots on me.
“Men,” I said, though my voice sounded harsh and haggard. “This is a groundhog case. It is live or die with us, so we must fight it out with them.”
Some of my men still worked on their trenches, had been digging this since morning. H Troop guarded the hill’s weakest point, and one damned savage had made it within seventy-five feet of us. We had reinforcements—that morning, Captain French and M Troop had relieved my troop, so we could dig trenches and rifle pits to protect ourselves (although that had taken some arm-twisting of Marcus Reno).
Now I found myself hurrying back to Major Reno’s hole in the ground.
Though I would never admit this to anyone other than my wife and in an anonymous newspaper report, it galled me, having to walk to an idiot, a damned coward, to ask permission, but Reno had rank over me. I tried to figure out who was worse, Reno or Custer. Who was the bigger fool?
I laughed. Hell, maybe I’m the biggest fool.
Reno was where I expected to find him, in his hole. Last night, he had been bunking with Captain Weir, another idiot, but at least Weir showed backbone. Now, Weir had gone, which meant the flask beside Reno must have been empty.
I looked down the hill.
By God, things were just as bad here as they were on the south side.
“Marcus,” I said, trying to sound pleasant enough, “if we don’t do something soon, we’re all dead.”
No reply.
“Major?” Showing him all military courtesy.
To hell with courtesy. “You have to do something here pretty quick. This won’t do. You must drive them back!”
“Can you see the Indians from there?” Reno managed to ask.
I had to choke back the most vile curse. Hell, all I could see were Indians.
“Yes,” I snapped, forgetting to add sir.
“If you can see them, give the command to charge.”
Well, give Marcus Reno some credit. As soon as he said that, he began reloading his revolver.
So I turned, yelling, “All ready now, men! Now’s the time. Give them hell! Hip, hip, here we go! The devil take the hindmost!”
To my amazement, Reno crawled out of his hole, managed to stand, even led the charge, firing. Sweat stung my eyes, but I could see clearly. The Seventh acted like soldiers. That’s all they really needed, a leader, not a braggart like Custer, the self-proclaimed Indian fighter, author of his self-serving book My Life on the Plains, which more appropriately should have been titled My Lie on the Plains.
The soldiers acted like soldiers, except for one bastard who remained sobbing in his hole. Like cowards, the Indians retreated down the hill, and Reno led the command back. No one had been killed. We had lost not even one man, except for the crying soldier who had never left his hole. He raised his head as our men can plunging back over to the top. He raised his head just long enough to catch a bullet through the temple.
I wonder … if perhaps … one of our boys fired that shot.
No matter. I complimented Reno, who could be a decent enough officer, which seemed to revive his spirits a mite. Some of the lads, however, skedaddled straight to the hospital, and I followed them there.
“Out of here, damn you. This is for the wounded, and if you aren’t dead, aren’t about to die, back to the lines with you. Back to your trenches, your positions. Those Indians will be coming back. Damn it, I say. ‘Move!’” This time, I cocked my own revolver.
They, the frightened but unharmed, and maybe even a few soldiers who had been bloodied, scrambled out of that depression, while I made my way back to the southern end.
“Listen to me!” I yelled. A bullet almost shaved the stubble off my left cheek. “I don’t know where Custer is, and I don’t give a damn. He’s abandoned us, and I am tired, I am damned thirsty, and I really want to take a nap. So we’re going over the edge, boys, and we’re giving these red vermin utter hell. Because right now, I’m getting mad.”
Cocking my .45, I yelled something—what, I cannot recall—and H Troop and I ran down the southern ravine, firing, shouting, screaming louder than the lousy Sioux.
I doubt if we made it farther than two hundred yards, probably nowhere near that distance, but the Indians pulled back quickly, scarcely even bothering to fire back. I slid to a stop, slipped on the gravel, and almost went sliding down that ravine. Wouldn’t that have been an inglorious end to my career!
A hand grabbed my shoulder, and my slide ended. I turned, grinning at the soldier who had stopped by fall, saw Sergeant McCurry grimacing, his left shoulder bloody.
“Damn you, McCurry!” I said, pulling myself up, then helping the wounded sergeant to his feet. “You’ve gotten yourself shot!”
“It’s all right, Colonel,” that glorious sergeant, the stay and prop of the Benteen Baseball Club said, “it’s only my left shoulder, sir. I’ll be able to pitch on Sunday.” He winked.
Likely he meant it, too.
“Fall back!” I yelled, waving my pistol, by then empty, over my head. “Fall back!” I stayed behind McCurry, making sure he made it back onto the hill, then directed Trooper Pigford to make sure Sergeant McCurry made it back to Dr. Porter immediately.
The last of the soldiers topped the hill.
Sergeant Geiger was the last one up.
“Any wounded, Sergeant?” I asked.
“No, sir!” he snapped, and found his place in the nearest pit.
I remained standing, staring below, watching all of those Indians running out in the open.
“Good God,” I said, then glanced at a shaking trooper at my feet. He was a private, but a damned fine shot, and he’d been right behind me during my charge. He was no coward. Hell, none of the men in H Troop ever showed any yellow.
“Windolph,” I told the private, “stand up and see this.”
He looked at me as if I were daft. “Do I have to, sir?”
“Stand up,” I ordered, and he pushed himself up using his carbine. He leaned on it, butted to the ground. Indeed, I think the Springfield was the only thing that kept Private Charles Windolph upright.
“Look at that,” I said, more to myself than to the trooper, before I put my hand on Windolph’s shoulder and added, “If you ever get out of here alive, which I sincerely doubt, you will be able to write and tell the old folks back in Germany how many Indians we had to fight today.”
I squeezed his shoulder, and walked away.
“Ed!” I called, and Lieutenant Godfrey appeared practically on cue.
Out of breath, throat coated with sand, tongue now swollen, I found myself sinking to the ground. Ed Godfrey sank with me.
“I’m thirsty as hell,” I whispered. “If you’re as dry as I am, we’ll not have a better opportunity than right now to fetch water for Doctor Porter … the wounded … and us.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Saddler
Michael Madden
Said Sergeant Geiger, “We’re bringing back water, Madden, not whiskey.”
To which I replied, “And what in hell would a puny damned Israelite from Cincinnati know about whiskey or water?”
That short little Napoleon bristled, he did, but what with me standing over six-feet-one, a good eight inches taller than his sorry ass, noth
ing more could he do than just bristle and grind his wooden dentures.
“Besides, I am not about to let all you H Troop buckos get all the glory. K Troop’s here!”
“You’re the only son of a bitch from K Troop that I see volunteerin’,” snapped back a D Troop scoundrel, for D Troop had nothing but scoundrels in its ranks.
“I’m all K Troop needs,” replied I with a grin. “All the entire regiment needs. Here, hand me those canteens and buckets. I’ll go down there meself. It’s just a wee little stroll.”
“Shut up!” Lieutenant Godfrey commanded, and you bet your bottom dollar every one of us listened, because Colonel Benteen stood right beside me lieutenant.
Our darlin’ officers was finding it a mite hard to keep all the laddies from scrambling down that hill in one mass exodus. That’s how thirsty everybody was.
So the colonel had asked for volunteers. Just head down to the river, get plenty of water, and get back up here, without winding up knocking on those pearly gates.
Me? Thirsty I was. Prickly pear be fine in a pinch, but a far cry ’tis from a taste of pot still whiskey from John Power & Son. Right now, I wanted a taste of water, not Irish.
Besides, crawling through that Indian-infested ravine, making it to the river, bringing back precious water for the wounded—criminy, for all of us—now that’s how legends be made.
Roughly twenty of us had volunteered for this hazardous duty. Even a Crow scout had joined us soldiers, and I’d heard an Indian could go longer than a damned camel without working up a thirst.
Benteen motioned for us to follow, and, crouching, we quickstepped it to the trenches on the southeastern side of our hillside home. The colonel pointed to the draw where those H Troop laddies had just charged down and scared off some cowardly Indians.
“It’s about five hundred yards to the river,” the colonel told us. “It’s steep, but you’ll have good cover. Till you reach the flats below. Then you’ll have thirty feet or so of open ground to the river.” He wet his cracked lips.
“Sergeant Geiger,” he called out, “Trooper Windolph. Private Mechling.”
Even before he called out the last name, the fight-loving Hun and saddler Voit, already bristling, I was. Another little frolic for H Troop. Colonel’s pets, they be. Denying me a fine chance of glory.
“You four are the best shots we have,” Benteen said. “You’ll provide a covering fire to the rest.”
I almost laughed. Sergeant Geiger would be hiding way up here, while us real lads ran for the river. Any fool could stand hundreds of yards from the enemy and shoot a carbine. But to run down this rugged draw, with Indians all around us, then sprint to a river and fill canteens and whatever while Indians shot at you, now that’s what makes a man. What makes a legend.
Why, I could already picture meself at My Lady’s Bowery, having those strumpets fawning over me, saying how brave I was, not even charging me for their pleasurable company.
“You’ll go in fours,” Lieutenant Godfrey was saying. “Then come back up the hill. Fill canteens, kettles, flasks, anything you can.”
“Is there a medal in this for us, Lieutenant?” Private Pym from B Troop asked.
Lieutenant Godfrey just smiled. His lips was puffy, cracked, bleeding. Looked a mess, he did, but he be K Troop, like me, and a damned fine fellow considering he be an officer. “There’s water,” be all he said.
“That’s all I want,” some D Troop horse thief said.
“Let’s go,” Sergeant Stanislaus Roy of A Troop said, and we followed him and Sergeant Rufus D. Hutchinson of B Troop into the ravine.
Hot, blazing hot, it was. Not a breath of wind, and those empty kettles and canteens rattled like a score of drummers tapping out commands, letting every Indian buck within two hundred yards know we be coming. Down that thick incline we ran, kicking up dust, trying to keep our feet.
Indians fired, but those four sharpshooters up on that slope, well, I’ll sing their praises till Judgment Day. They stood, shooting back. Not hiding at all. Hell, when I glanced back, I saw ’em just standing, exposing ’emselves. Most of the Indians was shooting at ’em brave lads, not us.
Down we moved, till we reached the end of the ravine. Not a one of us had even been scratched by anything sharper than brambles or cactus spines.
“Callan, Pym, Goldin, Deitline,” Sergeant Hutchinson said. “You’re first.”
Prayed I did, prayed hard that those fine lads made it across that long, long, flat thirty feet to the river’s edge. Bullets and arrows flew from every direction, but the four lads made it to that mighty Little Bighorn. Then, it took seven and a half eternities for ’em to fill their canteens. From the top of the hill, Sergeant Geiger and his marksmen kept firing down upon the Indians, and I made meself a vow never to chastise even a Jesus-hating Israelite like Geiger if those brave souls made it back safely.
Blessed Mary, mother of Jesus, they made it.
“Up!” Sergeant Roy waved ’em on. “Stay low. Keep up the ravine. Stay on this side.”
Tormentful, that was. Hearing those canteens sloshing full of water, seeing precious liquid spilling out of one of the kettles. Me mouth and throat ached dreadfully, but all I could do, all any of us could do, was watch those lads head up the draw.
“Bancroft,” Sergeant Roy said. “Harris. You. And you.” Ah, the fool sergeant didn’t point at me.
Again I watched the laddies dodge bullets, hit the banks of the river. Your mind plays tricks, it does, and I swear I heard the water gurgling as it filled those canteens.
Ah, blessed be thy Lord, those four made it back, too.
Finally Sergeant Rufus D. Hutchinson of B Troop, give me the look. “Thompson,” the sarge spoke to the puny little private from C Troop. “Welch. Madden.”
He only ordered three of us, but that’s because Sergeant Hutchinson run with us, too.
A bullet tugged at me collar, another split a rock just in front of me left boot, and then I was diving to that wet bank, and never a more beautiful sight appeared before me eyes. Didn’t take us four heroes long to learn what had taken the other folks all that time. Cupped our hands, we did. And drank greedily, hungrily. Water never tasted so fine.
“Not too much,” the sarge ordered, and he brought up one of his canteens.
As we filled our containers, Private Peter Thompson let out a cry, for all this while, bullets kept digging near us. Thompson shook his bloody hand. A chunk of lead had blown right through it. He cussed something fierce, but Thompson was not one to shirk his duty. Went right ahead, he did, grabbing one of those canteens, plunging it deep beneath the water’s surface. Bubbles splashed. Bullets sprayed us with beautiful, cold, gloriously wet water. I filled one canteen, then another, then took one end of a kettle, as Sergeant Hutchinson grabbed the other.
Now … here be something for the legends. We lay on that bank, Indians shooting at us, our sharpshooters blazing away at ’em savages, and from the other side of the Little Bighorn, we heard a voice. ’Twas an Indian, but he spoke perfect English.
“Come on over to this side, you sons of bitches, and we will give it to you! Come on over!”
I looked up, staring at the high banks, me mouth dropped open.
Private Thompson swore again, screaming that they’s white renegades with the Indians.
“Shut up,” the sarge snapped.
On the far side of the river, we heard something else. Those red devils … laughing.
“Go!” the sarge yelled at Thompson and Welch, and up they was, and running like hell. I could hear Sergeant Geiger and those marksmen firing away.
“Ready.” The sarge never was one for asking. He was telling, but he needed not tell me. I was past ready to light a shuck me ownself.
Damn, that was one big kettle, heavier than a ton of rocks. The sarge and me, we lugged it across the flats, canteens draped over our shoul
ders. Precious water dropped. On we came, closer to that draw, closer to cover. Thirty feet? Criminy, it seemed like thirty miles. Sergeant Roy and Trooper Pym fired their revolvers. And, then, damnation and piss on those savages, me right leg screamed out in the most mind-numbing pain ever I’ve felt, ever I’d hope to feel. Knowed I had been shot, I did, knowed me leg was busted below the knee, and felt meself falling, but damned it all to blazes if I was gonna drop this water.
Sergeant Roy rushed out of his hiding places, God bless him and his mothers, but not for me. No, the sergeant had better sense than that. He helped Sergeant Hutchinson with that kettle, get that water to safety.
Flat on me face I fell. Then, felt meself being lifted like I was light as a feather. I cussed. Said, “Leave me. Don’t get killed, you damned …” And saw I was being carried by … that damned Crow Indian.
We made it. He dumped me on the ground. Picked up his canteen. Didn’t even look at me again.
Still alive. All of us.
For the time being.
Now, I be cussing like a sailor, cussing those savages for ruining me leg, cussing that damned Crow for risking his life for mine, cussing meself for being so big. Hell’s fire, even Sergeant Geiger couldn’t have missed a target the size of Michael Madden, I said.
“Brant,” Sergeant Roy said, “Stivers. Get Madden up the ridge. Get him to the hospital.”
“The hell you say, Sergeant,” I fired back. “No lad is riskin’ his life for mine. Leave me. Leave me, damn you all.”
Sergeant Hutchinson kept wrapping a tourniquet around me leg. Stopped the bleeding, but not the pain.
“Up to the hill. Up to the hill,” Sergeant Roy directed Peter Thompson, his hand bloody, and some other fine young lads up the hill with the water we’d retrieved.
“Put a high price on that water, Peter me boy!” I cried out to Thompson. “God knows, I’ve upped the ante.”
Far from being done, we was, though, because as soon as those laddies started heading up that draw, Sergeant Roy was saying, “Who’s coming with me?”
After me bad injury, the sarge wasn’t about to order us volunteers into harm’s way.
Greasy Grass Page 17