Blood at Dawn

by Jim R. Woolard

  Jared was preparing to serve dinner, and I was fit to burst about Paw when Starkweather strode from his marquee in possession of a sword and its shoulder scabbard. “Ensign Downer, I believe we omitted a major accoutrement that distinguishes the dragoon from his fellow combatants. Please accept this with my most earnest apology.”

  I was taken aback, for I had never before so much as toted a sword, and the wielding of a long knife during a charge on horseback was as foreign to me as Frog curse words, a truth I readily stammered to Starkweather. The captain dismissed my qualms with the wave of a gloved hand and bade I take receipt of his gift, which I did. “I’ll teach you proper conduct with the blade,” he promised. “And Ensign Young, being an excellent swordsman, will augment my teachings. The essentials will come easy to a man of your determination.”

  I decided a nod of acceptance instead of an awkward thanks would suffice, and the moment not feeling right to request I take leave of the captain’s company on personal matters, I held my tongue altogether. I laid the gift sword carefully aside, and we seated ourselves at the table, Ensign Young and I bracing the captain. We dined in silence, guilt over the neglecting of Paw souring my appetite, till the distant blast of a firing musket lifted our heads. Two additional shots followed on the heels of the first, the echoes rolling flat across the meadow.

  Starkweather, never so much as flinching, calmly sat his wineglass on the velvet coverlet of the table. “As the Lord is my witness, nerves are certainly of a tremble. Enough to frighten the venerable owl from his perch, hey, my young men,” he ventured.

  We laughed with the captain, Andy Young taking particular delight in Starkweather’s humor. “General St. Clair remarked just yesterday, sir, that he prefers an attack by the savages to enduring the judgment of our sentries in the dark.”

  “And since I was not in attendance at St. Clair’s tent again today, what was the tone there after the hangings, Ensign?”

  Andy Young’s face smoothed. “Most solemn, sir. But of greater importance is the vicious rift amongst those reporting to General St. Clair.”

  “I am aware of certain disagreements and dislikes. Have you heard anything new in that regard?”

  “Yes, sir, just this afternoon. Rumor has it General Butler requested privately of General St. Clair two days ago that he be permitted to proceed ahead with a thousand picked men and surprise the Shawnee in their villages before winter sets in. General St. Clair refused to grant his request serious consideration, and General Butler left the headquarters tent angry and insulted. He now hardly speaks to General St. Clair.”

  Starkweather’s lengthy sigh pumped his chest up, then down. “Meaning no disrespect to our commanding officer, given the late date and our myriad problems, Butler’s strategy has considerable merit. Never forget, gentlemen, discord at the highest rank is the unwitting ally of dissension in the lowest. It can cripple a campaign as fully as the enemy without.” The captain refilled his glass along with ours. “And what of your other business, Ensign?”

  “I visited the Dodd camp at noon, sir.”

  My wineglass stopped short of my mouth, and my ears opened wide. Maybe Andy Young had news of Paw. It was like Starkweather to inquire of his own volition.

  The ensign didn’t disappoint me. At Starkweather’s prompting, he continued. “Ensign Downer’s father departed for Fort Hamilton before dawn, sir. Mr. Watkins and Mr. Jacobs accompanied him.”

  A great weight fled my body. Paw had proven spry enough to ride, despite his injuries. Now I had only to deal with the guilt of my failure to rush to his side after the fight with Starnes. Funny how happenstance often saved a man from his own shortcomings.

  “And the others in Dodd’s camp?” Starkweather asked.

  “Starnes and the balance of the Duer men are resting their pack animals. They will return south in the morning.”

  Starkweather bit at his lip, assessing possibilities as I was. “Ensign Downer, I pray for the sake of us soldiers that Starnes and your father fulfill their obligations. Supplies are still the major question once our march resumes.”

  Distant as I was from Paw now, I wouldn’t have him doubted because of our separation. “Never you fear, sir, duty comes before all else with Caleb Downer. To that, I can freely attest.”

  “I misspoke, Ensign. It’s not your father I question but those most closely tied to William Duer, namely Court Starnes and his ilk,” the captain responded with utter frankness. “There will be a legal reckoning someday to set right the wrongs done the army these past months. It is my hope your father will bear witness against those at fault.”

  Andy Young and I exchanged glances. To my knowledge, Andy hadn’t shared the facts of Starnes’s Fort Washington thievery with the captain. But Starkweather was a clever fellow who, like Paw, missed nothing about him. Maybe Court Starnes would yet face the judge for his misdeeds. My worry in that regard was that Paw would somehow be unfairly painted with the same brush as the guilty.

  “Ensign Young, I believe you have other business to report,” Starkweather prodded.

  “Yes, sir,” Andy Young responded instantly, accidentally dribbling wine down his chin. The ensign grinned sheepishly and dried the errant drizzle from skin and clothing with the flat of his palm. “I visited the Green cabin early this afternoon as ordered.”

  My ears shot straight up as did my frame, and I couldn’t help but lean toward him. I swear Starkweather straightened somewhat also, though I may have imagined it. An old admonition of Mother’s flashed to mind: Less’n wisdom prevailed, jealousy bred bad blood twixt the finest of humankind.

  “I am pleased to report Molly Green has taken a decided turn for the better,” Andy Young said. “Annie Bower observed a smile on her face when she predicted she would soon rise from the sickbed.”

  Starkweather grimaced at the mere mention of the harlot. “And how are those about her faring?”

  Andy Young chose his wording carefully, as if utmost accuracy was expected of him. “Sergeant Devlin is mostly beside himself. He does not relish having to leave his beloved in the care of others, devoted though they are.”

  “The sergeant should be thankful she will be spared the rigors of the march in commodious quarters,” Starkweather snapped. “And the daughter. What of her?”

  The captain’s avoidance of Erin’s name appeared deliberate. Was he trying to sound impersonal to hide an abiding personal interest?

  “Erin frets no less than Sergeant Devlin but displays her usual spunk,” Andy Young said. “She cannot countenance other than a complete recovery by her mother.”

  “Yes, the daughter is quite remarkable for her unflagging fortitude as well as her beauty,” Starkweather stated admiringly. “The finest gentleman would be proud to have her on his arm.”

  And was that arm to belong to the handsome Miles Starkweather, who intended to take another wife? I thought it but felt less of myself for doing so. I was beginning to understand the hazards of a totally consuming love. Maybe it required a bigger and wiser man than I to love so profoundly and completely and not have that love prove your ruination.

  In a giddy rush, a wild urge to lay eyes on Erin Green the slimmest of minutes beset me, nearly overwhelming my senses. I could barely restrain myself. If I couldn’t hold her and kiss her, I at least had to sight her from afar, at least wave good-bye to her. And I was suddenly afraid the morning with all its final preparations to march would be too late.

  Her whereabouts were no mystery. Andy Young, it was, had early on pointed out the mud and wattle chimney barely visible within the fringe of trees bordering the south rim of the eastern meadow. I had glanced that direction the entire morning, vainly seeking a glimpse of flame-red hair. But disappointment had ruled the day and was destined to reign through the evening. Before I could ask permission to take leave of the dragoon camp, Starkweather terminated our dinner with a most restrictive command. “To bed with you, gentlemen. All members of the troop, including officers, are confined to camp till our departure. I
will hear no requests to the contrary and will punish violations to the full.” Starkweather rose from his chair and called, “Jared, you may clear the table.”

  I suffered another fitful, restless night. Everything touching upon me was in complete turmoil. The father I loved, admired, and respected had disowned me, then suffered serious injuries defending my name. But even if I wanted to achieve some reconciliation with him, he was away and gone, riding south opposite my future line of travel. And the longer we stayed apart, the greater the odds our mutual stubbornness would preclude us ever seeing eye to eye again.

  Separation from the girl I loved made every beat of my heart doubly painful and aching. I wasn’t certain Erin Green returned my love, and the upcoming march northward with the First Dragoons would forestall any chance to even talk with her for perhaps weeks. Hadn’t other men been forgotten or bested during shorter absences?

  I moaned in my blankets. An additional torture was my fear for Erin’s safety till the army returned. Only the infirm and the unfit would remain behind to garrison Fort Jefferson, and the Injuns could appear anywhere at any time. Starkweather had intended to hire Tap to guard the Green cabin while the army was away. But Paw’s brawl with Court Starnes had inadvertently drawn Tap elsewhere.

  I tossed and turned and schemed, but every path circled back upon itself. Starkweather’s oath had me snared tight as a steel trap. There would be no peace for me till St. Clair’s army did battle with the Shawnee . . . and only then if I survived the fight.

  Part IV

  The March Resumed

  Chapter 25

  24 October till 28 October

  The dream just prior to dawn was the worst. I relived the ghastly military executions, and in my mind’s eye the lifeless middle body, face purple and bloated, was none other than that of Ethan Downer, hung, not for deserting the First Dragoons, but his father. I jerked awake scared and shaking, awash in cold sweat.

  I discovered the blubbery groans I heard were my own and, stifling them, glanced frantically at the other occupants of the tent. Andy Young slept soundly beside me, and Jared snored merrily near the front entryway. Grateful I had not awakened them screeching like a child frightened by his own nightmares, I pulled my blanket tighter about me and lay quietly in wait of the morning drum.

  Mother had always been wont to warn, cast a stone upon still waters and the ripples from the splash will roll to the bank steady as the sun crosses the sky from morning to night. I had by choice made of myself a dragoon, and there would be no more wayward, willful pursuit of personal whims and feelings for any cause, no matter how just or proper. The punishment now wasn’t banishment to Kentucky but the whip or, God forbid, the hanging rope.

  On that Monday, 24 October, with me gaining nary a peek at flame-red hair, St. Clair’s army, resembling some serpentine monster with bristling head and countless legs, crept forward at nine of the A.M., traveling the northern-bound Injun path the First Dragoons had scouted three days before. Six miles later, at the stream of forty feet where we had located lean-tos recently frequented by the Shawnee, the army ground to a halt and deposed itself in two lines with the artillery and cavalry upon the right and left, and the militia in the rear. General St. Clair then determined his forces were, despite the recent Starnes shipment, insufficiently supplied with flour and beef for any extended forward movement, and the intended overnight camp stretched to five full days.

  It was a goodly thing devotion to duty had come to the fore of my thinking, for Miles Starkweather now proved himself the ultimate taskmaster, more exacting than even Paw. We burst from our blankets before first light, and training and foraging filled most every minute of daylight. No matter the hour, we maintained a constant guard detail whether in camp or afield. The captain’s aversion to surprise became the Bible by which we sucked each breath and made the tiniest move.

  He scouted out a large meadow to the west and drilled us on horseback, rain or shine. The first morning he presented me with one final, last piece of gear: a chest sling to hold my rifle on my backside with its stock behind my left shoulder and the barrel protruding past my right hip. He then taught me the elements of the mounted attack. I learned how to draw my sword without endangering myself or Blue’s ears. I learned how to grip Blue tightly with my knees and slash full force at grass-filled sacks shaped like red enemies and tied upright before buried posts. I learned to disdain the tempting skull of the head and target the soft curve of the neck. I learned with diligent practice how to roll my wrist after impact and free my blade with an upward slice through bone, flesh, and arteries. The sword was a fearsome weapon, and I gained greater respect for it and the horse beneath me with each charge. Blue never once faltered or shied from the would-be enemies, the galloping animals flanking him, or the thudding strike of strange steel. Indeed, he relished the morning dashes to the target, the quick spins, and return passes.

  Starkweather took note of Blue’s superb performance and inquired as to his breeding lineage and temperament. He was no less serious about the daily tending of our mounts. Dawn and dusk we inspected from teeth to tail and backbone to hoof for sores, swelling, lameness, and loose shoes. After morning drill, we traipsed the meadows every afternoon to secure adequate forage. While other army horses frequently perished due to poor treatment and starvation, the mounts of the First Dragoons, except those lost in battle and to accident, survived the campaign. Starkweather supposedly buried men easier than he did the four-legged, and I for one, believed it.

  We escaped the captain’s rigorous fervor for constant activity only at the evening meal. Unlike other high-ranking officers who had continued to burden the few remaining pack animals and horse-drawn wagons still available to the army with their personal possessions, Starkweather had stored his marquee tent with its cherry bed and brass bathing tub at Fort Jefferson. We dined nightly, therefore, under a single canvas awning aligned to shun wind and rain. Jared seemed more put out than did his master that we ate now on plates of tin instead of china and drank from cups of the same metal in lieu of stemmed glasses. Somehow the servant had brought forward a few tins of sardines, a small crock of pickled oysters, and select bottles of wine, but his demeanor grew morose as his meager private stores dwindled, and we became increasingly dependent on the army for our rations.

  Andy Young visited General St. Clair’s headquarters daily at dusk and returned to the Starkweather awning post haste with whatever news he obtained. Not surprisingly, the captain’s prime interest each evening centered on any reported sighting of the enemy as well as the current prediction as to when fresh provisions would arrive from Fort Jefferson. It was on 28 October that Andy Young, toting a sizable cloth sack and a clay jug, joined the captain and me in a state of excitement. “Pack train bearing twelve thousand pounds of flour and whiskey showed earlier while we were foraging.”

  Starkweather, seated at the fire, frowned. “Only twelve thousand pounds. That’s but a four-day supply.”

  The ensign laid his cloth sack in Jared’s arms, and the servant hustled with it to kneading board and metal baking oven. “Yes, and Court Starnes, who brought the pack train into camp, wasn’t exactly precise about future shipments, which naturally infuriated General St. Clair,” Andy Young related, tugging the wooden bung from his clay jug.

  Starkweather bleakly eyed the green tea in his tin cup, a brew he drank for its warmth, not its taste. He extended his cup, and the ensign carefully topped its contents with a dollop of raw whiskey. “The lack of wine is a mortal shortcoming,” the captain lamented after a hefty drink. “St. Clair put three hundred army horses at Starnes’s beck and call, yet he can’t meet the general’s requirements of one hundred fifty loads of flour every seven days. What’s his excuse?”

  Andy Young passed me the whiskey jug and poured himself a steaming cup of tea. “Starnes says there was much confusion and stealing at Fort Washington before he arrived from Fort Pitt. He said he couldn’t be faulted for the misdeeds and failings of others. He vowed he would retur
n south at daybreak to insure all necessary actions are taken to satisfy the general.”

  I grasped the whiskey jug tightly so neither the ensign nor Starkweather spied my shaking hands. Damn Court Starnes to hell, anyway. He was not only the true culprit but also a bold and artful liar. Paw had toiled day and night organizing the welter of animals and supplies that flowed haphazardly into Cincinnati from Starnes’s yards at Fort Pitt and elsewhere along the Ohio. He had made order out of utter chaos, preserving every item received. Now the person who had stolen what never really existed was falsely portraying Paw’s tireless efforts as erratic bungling and thievery. I slugged whiskey in a gulping swallow. It irked me royally how an unscrupulous rogue like Starnes could seemingly turn every trying situation to his advantage with a glib tongue.

  There was much I wanted to ask of the ensign, like who had accompanied Starnes into camp and what might they know of those staying behind at Fort Jefferson, but Starkweather’s questioning took precedence. “Did Starnes speculate as to when additional provisions might be forthcoming?”

  “He claimed a large shipment borne by two hundred horses is plying the road twixt Forts Hamilton and Jefferson, a claim the general’s couriers haven’t substantiated.”

  “Then the army is to stand idle?”

  “General St. Clair’s too crippled with the gout to travel. We will remain encamped for another day, but the deputy surveyor and a fatigue party of one hundred twenty will open a road tomorrow. A detail of twenty friendly Chickasaws will be dispatched to reconnoiter the country ahead in hopes of locating the enemy and perhaps take an Indian prisoner.”