That day’s travel took them into a different country. The flat desert gave way to grassy fields and the hot dusty air turned sweet and cool, smelling of the blue pine forests that darkened the foothills. In a thrilling way she could not explain, Rose felt she had been here before, as if she were somehow coming home.
At noon they stopped near a lake called De Smet after the Jesuit priest. It was a large, still lake surrounded by waist-high grass and a bluff of brick red earth on the north shore. Though blue and beautiful to look at, the water stank of sulfur. Charley Thomas threw a stick for his dog but the hound would not go in the water to fetch it.
That afternoon they entered a rich green valley. Green-skinned hills, like ocean swells, rolled west to the Bighorn Mountains. Their snowy crests gleamed against a sky blue as the lapis lazuli in Rose’s Egyptian cameo. When they stopped to water their horses in a shallow stream, Rose lay on her stomach to drink also. She could see every pebble in its bed, and the water was so cold it made her teeth hurt. Lying there, smelling the crushed grass beneath her, with her mouth full of clean, pure water, Rose felt an unexpected sympathy for the Indians who had lived on this land for generations and why they fought so savagely to defend it.
At last they crested the final ridge and Rose found herself looking down on Camp Carrington, nestled at the fork of a sparkling creek. Tidy rows of white tents lined the neatly mowed parade lawn, and one wall of a sturdy stockade was already in place. A steam-powered sawmill buzzed beside the water and she heard the bell-like rings of the blacksmith’s hammer. On a hill to their left a soldier on horseback waved a white flag, signaling their arrival to the camp below.
Carl picked his way gingerly down the rocky hill. Then, as if he smelled the barn, he broke into a trot after they crossed the shallow creek. As they neared the gate another train, loaded with timber, also approached, and Mark stopped to let them enter. In the bed of the first wagon, Rose saw the naked body of a man. Feathered arrow shafts protruded from his white skin and muscle bulged from gashes in his thighs like sausage burst from its casing. Turning her head, Rose’s eyes met those of a passing teamster.
“Welcome to Camp Carrington,” he said with a wolfish smile.
Chapter Twenty-two
Margaret kissed Rose on the cheek. “How I’ve missed you,” the older woman said. “There’s been no one to talk to!”
They were alone in one of the two tents that would serve as quarters for Rose and Mark until their cabin was finished. Margaret had prepared it for Rose’s arrival, lining the canvas walls with blue army blankets to keep the interior cool on hot days and dry on wet ones. Buffalo skins carpeted the floor.
“I was worried about you at Sedgwick,” Margaret said as Rose unpacked. “And just look at you—pretty as ever! I wish I had the courage to do that to my hair. It quite becomes you.”
“Thank you. I like it too,” Rose said, “but I’m not sure Mark does.” She was starting to think she might keep it short anyhow.
“Henry tells me that nice-looking surgeon who took care of you there—Daniel Dixon—will be joining Sam Horton’s medical staff, for a while at least.”
“Yes, he mentioned that. He’s an excellent doctor. He’ll make a good addition.”
“He seems very nice,” Margaret said. “It’s so sad about his wife and child.”
Rose’s heart jumped into her throat. “Wife and child?”
“Yes, apparently they died just after the child was born. Sam told me about it. He said Daniel took it hard. Don’t you know anything about it?”
“No. Nothing.” Rose’s hands shook as she took her Nile-green silk from the bottom of the trunk. It was ruined. Water had penetrated the trunk’s leather seams, leaving dark stains on the skirt and bodice. She threw it to the floor. She knew so little about him.
“Oh, no! Your silk!” Margaret picked it up. “You were so lovely in it the night I met you, remember? The night of Wessells’s reception. Imagine—that was only weeks ago.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t it seem a lifetime? Well, don’t throw it out. Maybe we can save it.”
“I don’t care,” Rose said. “It doesn’t matter now.” She felt Margaret’s eyes on her and changed the topic. “How are the boys? I saw Harry—he’s grown so.”
Margaret smiled. “He’s already tall as Henry. It’s all I can do to keep him in food and trousers—and shoes, of course. My poor sons, they look like street urchins with their too-small things and patches. I do my mending with bits of antelope skin and flour sacking, that’s what we’re reduced to.” She paused. “Rose, how does Henry seem to you? Please, speak frankly.”
The question caught Rose off guard. “Well, he’s thinner. I’d say he looks a little tired.” In fact, she thought, Carrington looked as if he’d aged ten years since last she saw him.
“He’s under a terrible strain,” Margaret said. “He doesn’t eat, cannot rest, he sleeps in his clothes. If only he’d share some responsibility, but he refuses to delegate. Take the building of this post. He is engineer, draftsman, and construction superintendent—this on top of everything else! Worst of all, he gets no support from Omaha. General Cooke does not understand our situation here. The Indians are so much more troublesome than anyone anticipated. On top of that, we’re woefully undersupplied and understaffed, yet our last communication from Cooke included transfers for Haymond and Phisterer—two of Henry’s most dependable officers. They’re to leave next week, the first of August. It makes no sense.”
Rose said, “What about the officers who arrived with us, lieutenants Templeton and Wands and the others? Won’t they help?”
“They may, but Henry needs men with experience, men he can trust, and these are in short supply indeed. Please keep this to yourself, Rose, but he thinks one of the lieutenants is corresponding secretly with Cooke, trying to undermine him. He suspects Bisbee. I don’t know what to think. Sometimes I fear he’s losing his mind!”
Rose put her arm around Margaret’s shoulder. Clearly, the colonel wasn’t the only one feeling stress. Rose thought Margaret was about to cry.
“And still Cooke insists on three Powder River posts,” she said, pulling herself together. “How is Henry supposed to guarantee the Bozeman Road, build two new posts, and maintain the mails all with only eight companies and no supplies?”
“I agree, it’s too much,” Rose said, “Surely Colonel Carrington can make Cooke see this?”
Margaret laughed. “My dear, that’s part of the problem. He’s too proud to try. Henry believes—perhaps rightly—that complaints would be seen as failure. No, he’s already decided to send Lieutenant Kirtland and F Company back to Fort Reno to shore up that horrible place while Kinney and Burrowes will take D and G companies north to the Bighorn River to build the third post. We’re to be called Fort Philip Kearny here. Henry just received the order yesterday.”
“But I thought this was to be Fort Carrington.”
“Yes, we thought so too. Henry was so pleased—but no, he’s denied even that small satisfaction.” Margaret shook her head. “By the way, Mark has been a great help to Henry. His loyalty is much appreciated.”
Rose nodded, feeling like a traitor. Mark constantly complained to her about Carrington’s “timidity and incompetence.” Just the night before, as they lay in bed, he said he was thinking about writing to Sherman. “Carrington’s worthless as a commanding officer,” he had said. “General Sherman should know.”
“Why would you do that?” Rose said. From the beginning, Carrington had treated Mark with kindness and respect. “Are you hoping Sherman might promote a junior officer? You, for instance?”
Mark raised himself on one elbow and turned to her. She could not see his face but sensed his anger. “That’s not my intention, but what if it were? I didn’t work my ass off studying law and toadying to Tom Ewing so I could be a first lieutenant forever. Carrington will botch this and pull me down with him. Is that what you want? What’s the matter with you, Rose?” She felt his anger growing. “Dancing like
a laundress with enlisted men, inviting road trash to dinner. You don’t even look like a proper officer’s wife, with your freckles and your boy’s haircut. In fact, you don’t even look like a proper woman anymore. You’re too thin—you have no breasts! If I wanted to bed down with a boy, I’d do it.”
He threw back the blankets and dressed hurriedly, leaving with his shirt still unbuttoned. Rose felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. Mark used to say she was the most beautiful woman in the world, that no one could hold a candle to her. Now she disgusted him. Had she changed so much? Had she become one of those army wives who, in his words, used a hardship posting as an excuse to let themselves go?
She lay in bed, listening to the roar of the Big Piney cascades and the round-robin calls of the sentries. Things were not going as expected, true, but was that her fault alone? She was disappointed too. They had talked about what they would do after Mark’s time in the service, after the territories had settled. They would start a family, buy some land—land out here would be cheap at first—and begin building their lives together. He was interested in a judicial or political career. They also talked about a ranch, or maybe a store. Whatever it was, they would make something valuable together, an opportunity they would never have in war-ruined Missouri, and pass it on to their children and their children’s children. This was their dream—their shared dream—or so she thought. Now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe she had changed some, in appearance and otherwise, but how could she not? Not every woman could endure what she had at the redoubt, and before at Fort Sedgwick, and come out a stronger person, as she had done. She was competent, healthy and determined. She had the qualities a woman needed to survive in this hard country. Did Mark appreciate none of this? Had she misjudged him, or had he changed?
She was still awake when the wood wagons rumbled through the gates for Piney Island, a logging camp six miles to the west. As she dressed, she wondered where Mark spent the night.
She and Jerusha passed the morning washing whites and bed linens. Rose considered asking Jerusha if she knew of Mark’s whereabouts but did not. Jerusha wouldn’t tell her anyway, Rose was sure of that. They worked without speaking though Rose found company in the sounds of industry that surrounded them. The sawmill hummed steadily, turning logs into posts and planks, studding and rafters, while scenting the air with the clean aroma of raw pine. Mules brayed for their morning grain and men called to one another over the ripping of handsaws and pounding of hammers.
That afternoon Dillon and the soldier from the wood train were buried, inaugurating the post cemetery at the base of Pilot Hill. Chaplain David White, a Methodist clergyman with gray hair and cold blue eyes, presided at the funerals. He was new to the regiment, arriving with Lieutenant Wands and party. Thunder rolled and a teasing wind played with the Bible’s gilt-edged pages as he read from the Seventy-ninth Psalm. A poor choice, Rose thought, and one that did little to soothe the anxious mourners:
“O God, the heathen are come into thine inheritance.
The dead bodies of thy servants
they have given to be meat unto the fowls of heaven,
the flesh of thy saints unto the beasts of the earth.
Their blood have they shed like water around
Jerusalem;
and there was none to bury them.”
Rose attended alone. She and Mark had not spoken since his outburst the night before. After the funerals, William Thomas invited her to the emigrant camp for coffee. They sat in folding chairs by the Big Piney as the thunder grew louder and more frequent.
“What did you think of Brother White’s service?” Rose said.
He looked sheepish. “I wasn’t listening, to tell you the truth. I was thinking about what’s ahead for Charley and me.” He looked to the mountains, their summits white against the darkening sky. “Kirkendall says we’ll be moving on in a day or so and, I confess, I feel geese flying over my grave.”
That was something Rose’s grandfather used to when he sensed trouble coming. “Everyone feels that way occasionally,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Still, I wonder if you would do something for me?” She nodded. “If I am killed, will you see to it that Charley finds his way to my brother, George, in Gallatin City? He shouldn’t be hard to find. I’ve written down his name and particulars.”
As she took the paper from him she remembered Jack Gregory’s similar request. “I’m sure this won’t be necessary,” she said. “You and Charley will find George yourselves and I’ll come visit you there when you’re settled.”
William smiled. “I’m sure you’re right.”
He offered to escort her back to the fort before the storm came but Rose wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Halfway up the hill she saw a man standing on the path. She recognized Fred Brown’s shining bald head.
“You shouldn’t go roaming around by yourself, Mrs. Reynolds,” he said. “Something bad could happen to you.”
She smelled whiskey on his breath. “Thank you for your concern, Lieutenant,” she said without stopping.
He fell into step beside her. “I’ll be Captain Brown soon. My commission will arrive any day.”
“How nice for you.”
Although Brown and his ribald humor were popular with the men, women tended to avoid him, especially when he was drinking, which was often. More than once Rose had caught him looking at her like a hungry dog eyeing a bit of meat.
“Why do you mix with those hayseeds anyway?” he said.
“They aren’t hayseeds,” she said. “They’re my friends.”
“Maybe you and I could be friends.” He put his hand on her arm.
“Not likely,” she said, shaking him off. “Besides, I don’t think my husband would like that.”
Brown laughed. “Lieutenant Reynolds has friends of his own. A man gets lonely when his woman isn’t around. Sometimes even when she is.”
Rose felt the ground shift beneath her. What was he telling her? “You’re drunk,” she said. “Leave me alone or I’ll tell Mark about your ugly insinuations.”
A flash of lightning split the sky followed by a crash of thunder.
“You never have liked me, have you?” he said. “Well, I suppose that’s to be expected. After all, I’m just a shopkeeper’s son from Toledo, not one of your St. Louis bluenoses. Why, I bet you’ve never met a man like me before.” He smiled, swaying on his feet.
“You’re wrong, Mr. Brown,” she said in her sweetest voice. “St. Louis has its share of jackasses too.”
He stopped smiling and she moved on, relieved he did not follow. The wind picked up and she lifted her skirts to run, hoping to beat the rain. Just as she reached the post she was startled by the report of a gun, a single shot. She saw men running to a tent on officers’ row. She joined them. Inside she saw a man on his knees with his head on the ground before him, as if in prayer.
“Come away, Mrs. Reynolds,” a soldier took her by the arm. “You don’t want to see this.” She recognized one of her dancing partners.
“What happened?” she said. “Has there been an accident?”
“No accident, ma’am. It’s Lieutenant Anderson. He drank a bottle of whiskey and put his revolver in his mouth.”
Rose covered her eyes with her hands. He had been strange since Clara and Rollo died but she had no idea he had sunk this far. Maybe if she hadn’t been so wrapped up in her own problems she would have noticed the degree of his suffering. Maybe she could have done something to help.
She went to her tent, lit the lamp, and lay down on her cot without undressing. A solitary cricket chirped from a dark corner. How alone she was. How far from home and any sort of comfort. As if on cue, with a blue-white flash of lightning the storm finally broke. Fat drops of rain thumped on the canvas, just a few at first and then a barrage. Yellow lamplight bounced off the tent walls as they shook in the wind. A red wave of panic swept over her. Something monstrous was coming, slinking through the darkness, close
r every minute, every second. Whatever it was, she would have to face it alone.
Chapter Twenty-three
She was thinner and her hair was different but in Harry Carrington’s eyes Rose Reynolds was still the most beautiful woman in the world, so beautiful his heart skipped a beat when she waved him over to her tent.
“Harry, come here. I’ve got something for you.”
He obeyed with a studied casualness as she went inside, then returned with something behind her back.
“Close your eyes and put out your hands,” she said. “Now open.”
Harry looked down and saw The Count of Monte Cristo, the only book by Alexandre Dumas Harry had not read. “Ah!” he croaked with happiness.
“I bought it from a soldier at Fort Reno,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said when he got his voice under control. “Dumas is my favorite author.”
“I knew that. Your mother told me. Now come.” She sat in her rocker and motioned for him to sit beside her. “Tell me what you’ve been up to since Fort Sedgwick.”
He started talking, haltingly at first but gaining confidence because she was an interested listener. He told her of their encounter with Black Horse’s Cheyenne and the deaths of French Pete’s party, about riding Calico with the woodcutters to the Pinery. He had her full attention until horsemen appeared on the Fort Reno Road.
“It’s just the mail,” Harry said, wanting to draw her focus back to him. He recognized Montgomery Van Valzah, a short, thick man with a bulbous nose and dark beard, who carried the locked mailbag between forts Phil Kearny and Laramie with stops at Bridger’s Ferry and Reno. For this dangerous work he received the handsome pay of ten dollars a day. A civilian, Van Valzah usually traveled with a three-man military escort, but on this occasion there was a fourth rider.
Rose stood. Mail call was an exciting event. Already a crowd was gathering at the adjutant’s office, but Harry sensed it was not the mail that aroused her interest.
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