Robert was a Cherokee. Cherokee were among the Five Civilized Tribes. Jesse had told her that actual companies of Cherokee had fought for the North—and for the South. She knew that Jesse considered the Cherokee to be at least as civilized as the white man—Jeremy probably considered them to be more so.
Back to travel. It seemed difficult for me to go through Washington, but actually it was far easier than seeing Richmond. Nothing was bombed, nothing was burned. We had some time before the train was to leave and Jesse already had his dispatches, so we went for a ride. My mare, Tilly, and Jesse’s horse will now be pent up in a railway car again for a long stretch, so it seemed only fair to exercise them. But then we came upon the very sad part of that journey, for Jesse rode toward Arlington House, General Lee’s old home.
He and Daniel had been General Robert E. Lee’s pupils at West Point. To this day they both adore Lee, as does a countryside now, it seems. (Other than that awful General Pickett who blames the entire disaster of Gettysburg upon Lee.) Even Daniel admits that Stuart did not have the cavalry where it should have been and so failed Lee. And with Stonewall so recently deceased, Lee was so alone! Do I defend him too rashly? Yes, perhaps. Stuart is gone now along with Jackson and so many others; Lee has aged ten years for every one in which he fought the war.
“He can’t come home,” Jesse told me. And I saw in his eyes that he was remembering all the times that he had come there in happier days. The moment Lee agreed to serve the Confederacy, the Union seized his home. They could not afford him his little mount that overlooked the city of Washington. The house still stood. The house where Lee’s wife, Martha Washington’s great-granddaughter, had grown up and raised her own family. It had been a home to the Lees as precious as Cameron Hall is to all of us.
Lee cannot come home, for the government still has the place. The grounds are filled with the bodies of innumerable Union soldiers. Someone once thought that it would be a fine retaliation against Lee to bury Yankees on his grounds. Jesse told me that there was talk that the place might be made into a national cemetery, like the grounds in Gettysburg, but at the moment it is all in the air. Perhaps Lee’s family will try to get the property back or demand some recompense. Bitterness remains, although Lee himself has said that the war is over and that he is determined on healing—a healing as quick as can be accomplished.
We rode back from Arlington House and saw that the horses were boarded and then found our own accommodations. I have a beautiful sleeper to myself. The upholstery is velvet, the furnishings are mahogany. Jesse is traveling on my one side, and Celia on the other. There is a handsome dining car just beyond us, and beyond that a smoking car for the men. Jesse has refrained from spending much time there, as he is so tenderly determined to share what little time we have left together.
Celia is lovely, Robert Black Paw is fascinating. There is one more army wife with us, and she is not quite so lovely. She is Mrs. Brooks, wife of Lieutenant Brooks, and I do not know her first name because she has not offered it. She raised a huge stink that we must all stop and observe the Sabbath properly. She was furious with some of the men—enlisted men—in the far cars because they dared to use profanity in her proximity. Of course, I’m certain the poor fellows had no idea they were anywhere near her. She has assured me that she will insist my husband do something about it since I refuse to be concerned. Where is my proper respect and belief in the Lord?
I was so stunned by her that I’m afraid I took several moments to reply. I assured her that my God was still busy collecting souls from the battlefields, which brought a gasp from her. She huffed herself around and left and I haven’t seen her since, so I’m quite sure she will complain to Jeremy. I don’t care. Jesse was behind me, and he was amused and assured me that Jeremy would probably be too. Of course, Jesse doesn’t know how Jeremy really feels about me, but I do hope that he’ll support his men over that harpy. I walked to the rear of the train, stood out by the rail, and watched the countryside. We were traveling through the mountains and their beauty, captured in so many colors, was awesome. I wondered what had happened to so many of our own convictions. When we were young, we never failed to make Sunday church services. But then the war came and all men, Yanks and Rebels, prayed to the same God. I don’t think that I have lost Him entirely. Perhaps I shall find Him again in the West, alive in the savage wilderness.
We left the mountains to travel through Cincinnati, Ohio, and I saw just a bit of the bustle of that city. It is so untouched by the war. The next day brought us to Odin, Illinois, where I was startled when Jesse insisted I not leave the station. “They call it the hellhole of Illinois,” he informed me, and really played the big brother. I chafed at the bit, of course, and saw all that I could through the windows. In the dining car I managed to pick up quite a bit of gossip and was heartily sorry that I could not see the place, for it is truly reputed to be a den of iniquity. I could see some of the women in the streets, and certainly some of them were engaged in “the” profession, for their clothing was loud and garish and their faces were very painted. One young lady was wearing black stockings that could be seen beneath a rise in her skirt—which was crimson! She seemed a happy-go-lucky thing, and I imagined that she was probably much more down on her luck than evil in any way. Of course, there was more to be seen. Drunkards careening down the street, gamblers in very fancy black. Oh! There was a gunfight! Not that I could be a Cameron and be unaccustomed to guns, but this was quite different from anything in my experience. The two men were wearing slovenly long railway frocks, teetering about, and calling one another out. Fortunately—or unfortunately—they were both so drunk that they missed one another several times.
Jesse pulled me in from the window and warned that I had best watch out—they were such poor shots they might well catch my nose since it was protruding so from the train. I cuffed him soundly on the arm, then started to laugh, and he laughed, and then I was nearly crying and in his arms, but I sobered quickly. I will not cry again.
From Odin, Illinois, we came to Cairo and caught a steamer that would take us down the Mississippi. I was delighted with my beautiful stateroom, though that delight was somewhat dampened when the captain, a kindly old bewhiskered fellow, assured me that there would be nothing less than the finest for “Colonel Jem’s” wife. I tried not to think about the future too much, for the steamer is a fine southern vessel and there is a certain feeling about heading down into Dixie again. There are several ex-Confederates aboard. None of them seems to bear a grudge. Jesse has come across some old friends, and Rebel and Yank alike, they are all interested in a game of poker. Being Jesse’s friends, they were more than willing to allow his sister to play, and Jesse thought it was all right since I would be in his company and the stakes would be very low. Mrs. Brooks is, of course, quite horrified, and I’m certain she is going to find a way to inform Jeremy fully about his wife’s outrageous behavior. Well, she will just have to do so. I am enjoying myself tremendously, and I am very afraid that far too soon a noose will slip around my neck.
I had been sick mornings. Jesse had been afraid that the steamer would make me doubly so, but oddly enough, I feel very well now.
In Memphis we left the steamer and caught a new one headed down the White River. The ride became fascinating, for the scenery was haunting and mysterious. Swamps and deep, submerged forests surrounded the river. Darkness descended quickly, it seemed, yet sunsets and sunrises were glorious. There was the constant hum of insects at night, and though it seemed somewhat dismal, it was also very beautiful.
Four days out of Cairo and we reached DeVall’s Bluff, which is a teeming, busy port. Not even the war seems to have changed that here. Ships were coming and going, goods were piled high on the docks, and people bustled about with purpose, busy with their lives. It was wonderful to see.
I am, however, growing very nervous. We leave here on the noon train, and will reach Little Rock by five. My heart is racing, I cannot breathe very well. Women, especially women in my “c
ondition,” are supposed to have such difficulties, but I don’t think that this has anything to do with my health. I think that it has everything to do with my husband, and I cannot, for the life of me, begin to understand it. We are enemies. It is more than the color of his uniform, for from the day we first met we were natural enemies. A fire would grow hotter if he entered a room, a clear soft day would seem charged with the force of a storm. Now, things are assuredly worse for he seems to think that this marriage business has made him lord and master. Perhaps there is some sense to that, for I am here, the old life falling behind like clothing that has been shed, the new life stretching before me, frightening and wild.
We are approaching Little Rock. My fingers are trembling and it is difficult to hold the pen. I look at what I have written and am amazed—these words be but for my eyes only! Any minute, I will be with him again. I am so very nervous! I will end here.
Five forty-five. I will not, after all, end here. We’ve just received a message that Jeremy moved out into Indian territory with a small company of men on a search mission. He has left word asking Jesse to bring me down to his regiment’s encampment outside of Fort Smith. We will leave by boat again in the morning.
I have just read over my last entry. I wish that I might have enjoyed Little Rock more. Jesse was wonderful, taking me out for a delicious steak dinner at a very nice restaurant, joking and warning me that I must now be prepared for life in the field and that I should embark upon that life well fed. It was an interesting evening, for I met the matronly wife of a colonel just coming in from the Indian territory, and she has been wonderful. She warned me that, yes, I must have crinolines and petticoats for special occasions, but that if I were to be a truly respectable cavalry wife, I must dress the part. Simple cottons and, with the colder weather coming on, warm underclothing, nothing frilly. There will be occasions when one must dress up, but on a day-to-day basis the simpler the better. A bonnet is a must if a woman is to have any skin left whatsoever upon her nose. The dust will be horrid, the cold will be bone chilling, and the rain will come in torrents. But she assured me that she valued every minute of her experience. I hope that I can be like her. She is charming and bubbling. Her interest in the flowers and plants and the beauty of the scenery is contagious. Most of all, I am delighted because, thanks to this dear lady, Jeremy will not be able to find a bit of fault with me. He will meet the perfect cavalry wife. However else I may fail him, in this I will succeed.
We left Little Rock early the next morning. The steamer seemed excessively slow, and though the days should be turning cool, the ride seemed very hot I could not seem to still the onslaught of nerves that had assailed me, and all because of Jeremy. I am afraid to see him, I am afraid of Indians, and I am afraid of the unknown. I cannot be afraid of any of these things—especially Jeremy. I am also anxious. The blood seems to race through my veins. Though Jesse assures me that blood moves through the body at a constant rate, this is different. I lay awake last night, almost all the night, and I thought that it might well be the last time that I lay alone. Then I am anxious again, because he does strange things to me, things that I can’t combat, things that I must surely combat.
I haven’t thought of Liam in days. I loved him, but Jeremy seems to have overpowered that loss, and if I let myself think about it I will be glad to have him beside me, glad to feel his arms, for he does give me that feeling of belonging. He is fascinating to me, and I am compelled by him nearly as much as I am infuriated.
We have reached the camp. I am in Jeremy’s tent. I think that I am quite ready for a ride across the plains. I have folded up my crinolines, my dress is simple (I learned a great deal about simple clothing while picking cotton and tomatoes!), and I am trying to be very composed. Jeremy was still not available when we arrived, but his aide, Nathaniel, the curious black man I met in Richmond, has been very kind and efficient. My trunks are all arranged within Jeremy’s tent. It’s a large one. Even his bed, a folding apparatus, is large. The weather is fair, the flap is lifted, the insects are at a low, Nathaniel has assured me, and I have been supplied with a bottle of sherry, a small writing desk of my own—facing Jeremy’s larger one—and I really think that I am doing quite well. Nathaniel has assured me that there is a hip tub that was ordered especially for my use, and that he will be delighted to fill it for me if Jeremy does not return by mealtime. He has been gone several days, but they expect his return very soon.
Camp is a very busy place. Jeremy is commanding a regiment of eight companies, with each company consisting of eighteen to twenty-four men. Each company has its own captain, with various sergeants and corporals, and there are usually four lieutenants beneath Jeremy, but sometimes officers come and go, and there are others among them not necessarily accountable to any particular group of men. Dr. Weland, or Major Weland, is here and has already come by to see to my comfort. Celia is settled—and I’m assuming that Mrs. Brooks is settled, too, eagerly awaiting her chance to leap on Jeremy with tales of my evil deeds. She may go right ahead and do so. When he returns he’ll find me well composed—the sherry will see to that. I’ll be tremendously prim and proper with my hair pinned and my clothing plain, and hopefully he’ll have no complaint.
As it happened, her hair wasn’t pinned up and she wasn’t wearing clothing at all when he reached her.
But he certainly had no complaint.
While Christa was coming down to the encampment, Jeremy was busily engaged in a painful discovery.
He had come out to find an earlier company that had been headed for Fort Union had lost its regiment and bogged down somewhere in the vast country in between.
He knew the country and he had known where to look.
The Great Plains drew many tribes seeking the hunting grounds, the bountiful water, the rich grasses. Many of the tribes were peaceful, many were settled in reservations, and many were still at war.
He had come upon a place where they had dug into trenches. They had built up a wall of small rocks and mud to one side, and trenched in on the other. It had been a good maneuver to outsmart and outfight a band of horsemen. Some of the Indians had had rifles, but only a few. The others had been armed with bows and arrows.
But oh, how they had used them.
He could see the battle even as he walked around the trench of dead men.
The Indians had encircled the the cavalrymen. The cavalry had first used their horses as shields, forming a circle with their backs toward the middle, every man shooting as the Indians rode around them. It was the natural, textbook way to fight. It was perhaps the only way, under the circumstances. Perhaps night had then fallen. The men had dug in. The Indians had come again, but they had discovered that the white men were so well dug in that they were losing far too many braves with each encounter.
So the Indians had used different tactics, finding a distance from which to shoot their arrows. They had staked out the area with feathered shafts that remained to mark the grave the men had dug themselves. Someone had called out the order to fire—just like an artillery officer might have done in any battle of the war. Then adjustments had been made. A little to the left, a little to the right. Dead straight closer, perhaps a little farther. And so the arrows had flown. Perhaps twenty-five at a time. Once, twice, again. Until the men all lay dead.
“My God, Colonel! This is a sorry picture!” Captain Thayer Artimas of Company G told him. “Jesu, sir, but the poor fellows never had a chance.”
Jeremy stepped forward, pulling the arrow from the heart of a very young private with wide open, staring blue eyes. He knelt down and closed the boy’s eyes. He looked at the arrow. “Comanche,” he said softly. “They’ve come in quite far east. They don’t usually ride in this far.”
“They’ve been hot to fight lately, sir,” Captain Artimas said.
“I imagine they’ve been attacked a lot lately,” Jeremy murmured dryly.
Artimas shrugged. He looked around himself uneasily. “Think we ought to be moving onward, sir?”
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Jeremy nodded. Night was coming. Comanche seldom attacked at night, but he wanted to be out of the area. He had only twenty-five men with him and he didn’t want another massacre.
“Let’s get a burial detail going here!” he called to his men. But even as he said the words, he felt a peculiar sensation stirring at his nape. The wind seemed to have picked up. There was a trembling in the ground.
“Dismount and circle!” he ordered quickly. Jesu, it could be the same thing! Even as he gave the order, he heard the first war whoop of the Indians. They were coming around the scruff of trees that stood over the one hump of dirt near them that might be construed as a hill. He narrowed his eyes against the rising dust, trying to count. It was a small party—perhaps twenty or so braves.
He shoved his horse’s rump, aiming his rifle, calling to his men. “Wait to shoot, then shoot straight. We have to take them the first time, we can’t give them a chance to come back. Understand? We’ll be trapped like these poor fellows here if we make a mistake.”
There was no answer except for the rise of the war whoops on the air. The Indians were bearing down on them quickly. They were in buckskin breeches, only a few of them wearing shirts despite the fact that the nights were growing cooler and cooler. The paint on their faces, the feathers in the hair, all denoted them as a war party. They had come to kill.
Jeremy took careful aim at the warrior who seemed to be in the lead of the group. He squeezed the trigger and the man flew from his horse. He took aim again, steadying his nerves. He had learned long ago that no matter how difficult it was to stay still and take aim while Indians were bearing down on him, it had to be done. Steadily and quickly.
He fired again and caught a second warrior. At his side, Captain Artimas was also firing and firing fast. Private Darcy, an exceptional sharpshooter, was reaching for his carbine in his saddle. Indians were falling quickly. Darcy brought down another.
And One Rode West Page 16