Because of the medicine of Iron Shirt, he acknowledged unwillingly. He had seen with his own eyes men who died, even though they had been given the protection of Iron Shirt’s medicine. Not all of our people agree, he recalled, mindful of the young hothead, Red Cloud. He had maintained that the medicine was fake. He had agreed with Cloud Blanket of the Cheyenne, and strangely, the elders agreed and stayed out of this fight. He himself had only changed his mind at the last minute. Gunfire erupted along the wall before him and the two sides joined. Spotted Horse readied his pony. Their time would come soon.
Red Elk pushed his pony to a full gallop and loosed one arrow after another at the high wall of the fort. Never had they fought against such a thing. He doubted that arrows would do much damage against the thick forest of lodge-pole pines that had been lashed together across their path. What a strange way to fight, he mused. Who would want to hide behind a barrier three times the height of the tallest man?
Where was the honor in that? From beside him, one of the rifles given them by Iron Shirt barked, and as the smoke cleared, Red Elk saw a white soldier rear up and fall backward. Maybe they had a chance after all. It would be their job to keep the blue-coats busy while their cousins, the Lakota, rushed forward and scaled the walls. Such a strange way to fight. Yet, Iron Shirt had assured them all that it had come to him in a dream. One small thought nagged at him: the Blackfoot have been our enemies since the grandfather times: why do they share their medicine with us now? He would soon see how it worked, of that he was certain.
From his vantage point outside headquarters, Battalion Sergeant Major Muldoon could see little of the hostiles. Here and there feathers and painted faces revealed frantic action beyond the walls. Farther back, more ranks of savages could be seen on the slope that overlooked the fort.
He turned to the young headquarters lieutenant next to him. “Sure an’ it’s just like Preacher said it would be. Th’ heathen devils have got themselves up on that hillside and can look right down in here. If they knew a jot about artillery, we’d all be dead ducks, we would.”
A tightening of jaw muscles gave clear indication of the effect of those words on the youthful subaltern. For all he knew, the Indians might well have a battery of field pieces. So far, none of the savages they had engaged conducted their battles like Indians were supposed to fight. For some reason, they used standard military tactics. That made it downright scary. From the next words spoken by Muldoon, he might have been reading the lieutenant’s mind.
“Of course, when they be pressed too hard, they have always fallen back on their every man for himself ways and flung themselves at us with total disregard for their lives or those of their unit. That’s when the advantage falls to us. Ye’ll be sein’ that here, I’ve no doubt, sor.”
Shouted curses came from the parapet behind the wall and the rate of fire increased. “There’s more of ’em coming!” Arrows sailed over the defenses to land harmlessly on the parade ground.
BSM Muldoon touched the edge of the shiny black bill on his cap in salute. “If ye’ll excuse me, sor, I must go and take a better look at what’s makin’ up. Th’ darlin’ colonel will need to know.”
A surge of relief passed through the lieutenant, and he made no offer to accompany Muldoon. “Right, you do that, Sergeant Major.”
A flight of twenty-five arrows slammed into the ground all around, their colorful fletchings so many evil blossoms. Muldoon did not even flinch from them, instead he strode through their pattern with a light word on his lips. “ ’Tis a fine day for a stroll through the flowers, it is.”
Not being paid to defend the fort, the immigrant men armed themselves and formed a protective screen around their portion of the inner compound. Not surprisingly, when the call for the men to rally had come, Charlie Billings had taken up his light rifle and started off. Eve caught her son by the scooped back of his overalls.
“Where do you think you are going, young man?”
Talking over one shoulder, Charlie explained himself. “They called for all the men to arm themselves. There’s Injuns out there attacking the fort.”
“That did not include ten-year-old boys. You can do your best service by staying here and reloading for me, if the Indians get inside.”
Charlie’s face clouded. “Aw, Mom.”
“No arguments. The matter is closed. Besides, I thought you liked the idea of being an Indian.”
His stubborn streak flaring, Charlie answered hotly. “That’s different. These are bad Injuns. Hostiles.”
Eve would not be swayed any more than her son. “I want you to watch your sister in the meantime. And,” she added to soften her refusal, “I think it would be wise for you to carry your rifle with you while you do.”
Charlie brightened. “Sure, Mom.”
When Charlie and Anna departed for the soddy that had been built for the family, Eve lifted her eyes to the heavens. “Dear God, don’t let anything happen to them.”
Preacher and Three sleeps reached a portion of the revetment over the gate before the Cheyenne came into range. Both shared in the dismay of the lieutenant. Never had they seen such control and order among charging hostiles. Someone had found a way to train them and make it stick. At least for the present. Pick off a couple of war leaders and that would quickly change, he reasoned.
“There’s hundreds of them, Preacher.”
“Yer right, Three Sleeps. And more yet to come. D‘ya notice they’re fightin’ like soldiers?”
“Yes, and I don’t like it.”
Three Cheyenne had ridden well inside range. Preacher took aim on one, Three Sleeps sighted on another. They fired a fraction of a second apart and the targets left the backs of their ponies for the Spirit World. Quickly, the mountain men reloaded. Preacher popped the last one at forty yards. Some twenty-five yards from the stockade, an irregular line of broken rocks and fair-sized boulders had been left behind by the Dragoons when the fort grounds had been cleared.
Preacher had cautioned Lieutenant Colonel Danvers about this slip in planning and had, as usual, been ignored. He pointed them out now to Three Sleeps as Cheyenne braves, who had ridden double, slipped from behind their friends and taken cover in this manmade barrier. “I told the colonel about those rocks. They’ll hide a Cheyenne right enough.”
An increased rate of fire from the west told Preacher of the arrival of even more hostiles. He took a quick look over the parade ground and saw the six Dragoons still trying to get the cannon in place. He shook his head.
“Ain’t any of those dummies ever heard of a horse? That’s half a ton of metal they’re tryin’ to carry on their backs. A couple of horses would pull that gun up the ramp in no time at all.”
“There’s a right way, and a wrong way, and— ”
Preacher’s sigh cut off Three Sleeps. “Yeah, I know, the Army way.”
From the tree line came the foulest of Lakota curses. “Hu ihpeya wicayapo!”
Preacher’s scowl held a bushel of misery. “Aw, damn, the Lakota have got in this thing, too. Well, one thing certain, they ain’t gonna use me like a woman.”
“Not this chile, neither,” Three Sleeps readily agreed.
Eighty-five Lakota warriors, painted and ready for war, rode out of the trees. Three Sleeps saw a brown shoulder between two large rocks and snapped a shot. A howl answered him and the now bloody shoulder disappeared. While he reloaded, he offered his observation to Preacher.
“It don’t get much nastier than this.”
“Right as rain, Pard. An’ I got a feelin’ it’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”
Being senior, by time in grade, Captain Dreiling commanded the defenses over the main gate. He watched with even greater trepidation than Preacher when the Sioux showed themselves and began the charge down the length of the promontory. Protectively, the Dragoons on the parapet had crouched down when the Cheyenne had taken positions in the rocks and begun a sniping duel. Now he found himself forced to go along the double rank of defenders an
d whack rumps with the flat of his saber to get the troops up to fire at the new hostiles.
“All right, ladies, this is not a quilting bee. Get loaded, get up and prepare to fire by volley. The Sioux have come to pay us a visit.” Funny, he did not feel the least bit sarcastic. At the bottom of it, he knew himself to be every bit as scared as the greenest Dragoon out there.
There had to be one in every unit, and Private Finney was the one in Company C. “But, Cap’n, if we do that, those other Injuns will potshot us for sure.”
Captain Dreiling ground his teeth. “Why do you think there are two ranks of you? The kneeling rank covers the rocks, the standing one fires on the approaching hostiles. Make ready, men, they are almost in range.”
How vastly different from exercises in tactical defense of fortified installations taught at the Academy, Edward Dreiling mused as dust and powder smoke drifted across the ground below. There had been no bullets or arrows snapping past then. If anyone received serious injuries it was due to carelessness or stupidity. These red men swarming out there wanted to kill those in the fort.
From what he had been told they would not stay their hand if appealed to for quarter. The Indians knew no such civilized concept as taking prisoners for exchange. This day there would be many deaths.
Will I be ready for it? his mind mocked him.
TWENTY-FIVE
By noon, two heavy, concerted charges by the hostiles had been repulsed. Preacher munched on a wedge of cornbread, passed out by the women of the sheltering wagon train, and examined the powder-smeared faces of the young Dragoons. To his relief and satisfaction, he saw only expressions of determination. They had gotten over their initial fear. Some of them had even gotten up a game of mumblety-peg. Now, if luck held, the Injuns would not think of the concave wall to the east of this finger of land. Preacher lifted a gourd pitcher to his lips to wash down the cornbread with water. It had tasted good. Someone had thoughtfully cooked bits of bacon into it.
Years of fighting Indians and living in the wilderness had conditioned Preacher to take advantage of food whenever the opportunity presented itself. He ran the tip of his tongue across his teeth and reached for one of two flaky biscuits that remained on his tin plate. When he lifted it, a pink-centered slice of roast venison appeared beneath. He nodded at his plate and spoke to Antoine Revier.
“Maybe we ought to fight Injuns ever’ day. Those folks are sure feedin’ us nice.”
“The venison came from you know who,” said Antoine, who gave Preacher a poke in the ribs.
“Aw, git off my back, Tony.”
A sudden stir broke out at the junction of the north and west walls. “They’re comin’ again!” BSM Muldoon bellowed. “Dragoons, stand to your arms.”
Iron Shirt had lost his patience. So many warriors should have overrun that small number of soldiers long ago. They had followed orders well, at least until the volume of fire had rained down from those cursed walls increased to a steady roar. Then they forgot what they were supposed to do and went back to the old ways. He decided that a display of courage was needed. Taking up lance and rifle, he gathered his closest, most loyal followers and set out to lead the next attack.
First he harangued the warriors. “We must take this fort before the sun goes to sleep in the west. We cannot fail. Do you see that small knoll? If we do not carry the walls this time, I will be on the top, to make medicine and renew your spirits. One way or another we will kill all of the soldiers before darkness.”
Revived, the Blackfoot, Cheyenne and Sioux formed new lines and made ready to attack. At the signal from Iron Shirt, they threw themselves at the walls again. For many, it took supreme effort to blank out the images of their dead brothers and friends, men who were now supposed to be protected from the white men’s bullets.
Battalion Sergeant Major Muldoon had worked through the noon hour. At his direction, two sets of compound pulleys had been rigged at the top of the pounded earth ramp. Muldoon strung ropes through them and attached one end of each piece to the carriage of the three-pound cannon. The other ends, he gave to mounted Dragoons.
“Bend them around the pommels of yer darlin’ saddles, if ye will. When I give the word, set off at a walk toward the stables.”
Private Mallory scratched his chin. “But the stables ain’t built yet, Sergeant Major.”
One thing that had not changed during the journey here had been the woeful lack of intelligence on the part of Mallory. His patience already frayed by rampaging hostiles, BSM Muldoon got right up in the face of Mallory. “Sure an’ they ain’t gonna get built, ye idiot, unless we get this darlin’ cannon into action and drive them hostiles off. Now, do as I say.”
Wooden pulleys creaked and taut ropes thrummed as the weight of the cannon came on them. Step by persistent step, the half-ton weapon rolled toward the base of the ramp. The lines vibrated wildly when the wheels started up the incline. Then one cord, which had been exposed too long to sun and heavy dewfall, snapped with a loud report.
Like a whiplash, it hummed through the air and viciously struck the rump of the horse ridden by Mallory. The animal uttered a very human squeal of pain, reared and dumped its dull-witted rider to the ground.
Muldoon exploded. “Damn yer black heart an’ empty head, Mallory. Ye come a thousand miles and still can’t keep yer seat. Harris, git over here with that horse an’ another rope.”
After another twenty minutes, the small field piece had been dragged into place. Quickly the crew milled around it, rammed home a bag of powder, a wad and a fist-sized ball. They all stepped back smartly and stood rigidly in a position of attention.
“Prick . . . prime,” the gun captain commanded. Then he lowered a slow match over the touch hole. The little cannon went off with an ear-splitting roar.
The small, round projectile screamed through the air, to burst ten feet above a cluster of Blackfoot. Hot, smoldering shrapnel slashed into them and their horses. Shrieking, they went down together in a heap.
“Reload.”
Out came a water-soaked brush, to clean the bore, then the loader placed another bag in the muzzle and the rammer drove it down to the breech. Next came a cloth patch, and another ball. The gun crew stood back and the piece barked again. Shrieking, the ball lobbed over the wall slowly enough to be almost visible from the side.
It burst above another clutch of Blackfoot warriors. The defenders’ volume of fire increased, and confusion washed over the stunned Indians.
Although Lieutenant Colonel Danvers thought it better to have one of the mountain men on each of the completed walls, Preacher did not agree. If left together, their disciplined fire and superb, long-range marksmanship would have a devastating effect on the hostiles. Accordingly, he took Three Sleeps Norris and Antoine Revier to the west wall, where the Blackfoot had concentrated.
They began knocking riders from their horses at seventy yards. Perplexed, the Blackfoot soon gave evidence of their doubt. The medicine of Iron Shirt had failed them. Only twenty-five of the seventy who were supposed to do so ran forward to throw braided horsehide ropes over the barricade. Almost at once, three of them stumbled and went down from the well-placed shots of Preacher and his companions.
Preacher made an observation about their stubbornness. “They’s still got it in their heads that our bullets can’t hurt them. We’ve gotta make them think otherwise.”
Norris nodded. “You know, once an Injun’s got somethin’ in his head, it takes billy-be-damned to knock it out of there.”
By then, six of the attackers had scaled to the top of the wall. Preacher reached out and smashed one in the head with the butt of his Hawken. The Blackfoot fell away without a sound. Then the little cannon opened up.
Its first round stunned to immobility fully a hundred of the enemy. Seven of them died along with their horses. None of them had ever experienced anything like it. The second detonation ignited fear in the hearts of many of the more prudent among the Cheyenne and Sioux. Wisely, they broke off their attack
.
When the third projectile killed one and wounded seven Sioux, a general exodus began. Warriors streamed from the field, eyes wild with open fear that not even their enormous pride could suppress. Within ten minutes, not a single warrior remained within rifle range of Fort Washington.
“Well, that looks like it put the fear of the Almighty into them,” opined Preacher. When he reported to Lieutenant Colonel Danvers, he summed up with an ominous statement. “They’ll be back. Maybe not today, but give ‘em time to whup up some more medicine an’ they’ll be on our doorstep bright and early tomorrow.”
Preacher kept his plans to himself. He had a strong hunch that Lieutenant Colonel Danvers would strenuously disapprove of what he had on for tonight. Accordingly, he, Antoine and Three Sleeps left the fort quietly, by way of the sally port near the corral, well after dark. Lights out had been sounded by the trumpeter and the fort had settled in for sleep. Out on a small knoll to the west, a big bonfire blazed.
Preacher correctly judged that Iron Shirt would be whipping up more medicine. He’d have to, the mountain man reasoned, after the disaster of today’s attack. The heartbeat throbs of the big medicine drum reached Preacher’s ears as they headed toward the first target, their aim to create confusion and dread among the allies of the Blackfoot. For that purpose he had selected the Lakota encampment first.
With the soldiers bottled up in the fort, and their cousins the Cheyenne close by, the Sioux had not bothered with a night watch. Only the usual herd guards had been placed to prevent their ponies from straying. Preacher found one of them easily. The youthful Brule sat quietly on his pony, eyes fixed on the stars. His lips moved silently.
No doubt he’s making a poem for a gal friend, Preacher speculated as he crept up close to the unaware sentry. He had approached from downwind so not even the piebald animal gave warning as Preacher raised up in the tall grass and swung with the flat of his tomahawk blade.
Blackfoot Messiah Page 23