The Crossed Sabres

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Yes,” she answered, but put her hand in his for a moment and leaned toward him on the seat, her eyes fixed on his face.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Fort Abraham Lincoln

  Once again the morning began in freshness, in bright cleansing light. Then the coolness went away and the heat, the dust, and the monotony began. Just before noon, Faith saw a faint line of smudges against the horizon, small up-and-down streaks rising against the flatness of the prairie. The horses, smelling their destination, picked up their ears and then their pace, and soon the coach moved into the main street of Fargo, flanked by raw-boarded houses.

  The coach groaned to a halt in front of a depot shed standing beside a single railroad track.

  “We’re just in time,” Tom murmured, nodding toward the east where a smudge of train smoke was barely visible. “I’ll get your things.” He found her luggage, piled it on the ground, and they waited as the train grew larger, whistling hoarsely to warn the town. The steaming locomotive rolled in, and the townsmen ambled out of the businesses to watch. It was a break from the monotony of the day to see this line of steel, which was a thin strand that joined this far-off outpost to the busy world of the East.

  “I can’t get over how lonely this land is,” Faith murmured, running her eyes over the horizon.

  He leaned closer to catch her words, noting the smoothness of her complexion. “Not a place for people who like crowds.”

  She glanced at him quickly, for there seemed to be some sort of warning in his words, but there was no hint of anything in his face.

  The bell clanged steadily and great gusts of steam geysered, scaring a team of horses tied to a rail thirty feet from the track. They reared and neighed in terror, and the teamster had to saw on the reins until they grew calmer. The two baggage cars and five coaches jerked to a stop, the conductor appeared on the steps, calling out, “Fargo—twenty minutes for lunch!”

  “Better get something to take with us,” Tom said. “These trains don’t keep much of a schedule.” He dug into his pocket, produced some bills and gave one of them to Laurie. “You want to scoot over and get three of those lunches, Laurie?”

  The girl took the money, nodded, and moved over to where a young boy was selling sack lunches. Tom got the luggage on board, then Faith and Laurie came to the high step of the coach and he helped them on. “Can I have a seat by the window, Daddy?” Laurie asked. He nodded and she took the seat facing forward. Tom sat down across from her, saying, “You’d better not ride backward, Miss Jamison. Makes some people feel queasy.”

  Soon the train gave a convulsive jerk as the brakes were released, and after a first hard chuff a preliminary quiver went over the car, and the train moved forward, gradually gaining speed. One man who had been speaking with another just in front of them gave a startled cry, leaped to his feet and made a run down the aisle. They watched as he leaped off the train and fell sprawling in the dust. He got up, shaking his fists at some of the spectators who were laughing at his predicament. The man made a run at them and struck a tall man with his fist. Then the crowd shifted, blocking the passengers’ view.

  Faith smiled ruefully at Winslow. “Now,” she said, “we’ll never know who won the fight. It’s like losing a book you’re only half finished with.”

  “I did that once,” Laurie piped up. “Remember, Daddy? The book about the little girl who got lost—the book that got left when we moved from Fort Ruby?”

  He shook his head, saying, “Can’t remember.”

  She said impatiently, “You got it for me for my birthday. The Old Curiosity Shop—that was the name of it.” She sighed deeply, regret seeping across her countenance. “I liked that book so much!”

  Faith smiled, got to her feet, and made her way toward the end of the car. She waited until the conductor came through, then said, “Would it be possible for me to get at one of my suitcases? I need something out of it.”

  “Why, sure, miss!” he agreed, and took her on a rather adventurous journey to the baggage car. The wind whipped at her hair and her clothing as they passed over the couplings, and it gave her a quick thrill of fright when she looked down to where the heavy wheels ground against the rails. When they got to the car, he helped her find the bag she sought, then waited while she opened it. When she arose, he said, “I’ll go back with you. Can’t afford to lose a pretty lady like you.” He was old enough to feel concern for her, but young enough to have a sly look in his dark blue eyes.

  They made their way back to her car, and she smiled and said, “Thank you so much.”

  Going back to where Winslow and Laurie were watching the flat land speed by, she took her seat and handed a book to the girl. “Is this the book you lost, Laurie?” she asked.

  Laurie turned around quickly and took the book. It had a dark green cover, the insides well worn with dog-eared pages, but when Laurie opened the cover and saw the first illustration, she cried out, “Daddy, look—there’s Little Nell!” When she looked up at Faith, her eyes were shining and her lips parted with pleasure. She started to say something, then shyness overcame her, and she could only mumble, “Thank you.” She ran her hand over the cover, almost lovingly, and said without looking up, “I’ll read it now, before we get to Bismarck.”

  “No need for that, Laurie,” Faith assured her. “It’s your book. I’m glad for someone to have it who likes it as much as I do.”

  “Really?” Laurie exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face, making her look quite different. “Is it all right, Daddy?”

  Tom Winslow looked across at Laurie, pleased at the scene. “Of course, Laurie.” He tried to bring good things into his daughter’s life, but sometimes it was difficult. Many times he worried about the nature of the life he had given her, knowing that she was missing many things. More than once he had almost made the decision to let Mark have her to raise. The thought of marriage had come to him, of course, but he had never found a woman who fit his situation.

  At once, the girl opened the book and began reading, and Tom grinned. “You won’t get any conversation out of her now, Miss Jamison. When she gets her nose into a book, it takes a charge of dynamite to shake her loose.”

  “I was the same way,” Faith said. She looked down at the girl beside her, adding, “Perhaps I have some more books she might like. I’ll look when we get to Bismarck.”

  “That’s handsome of you,” Tom replied. He thought of offering to pay for the book, but realized instinctively that such an action would be out of place. “I should have gotten her the book long ago.” He hesitated, then added, “Her mother died when she was born.” He started to say more, but his lips clamped shut, and he turned to stare out the window.

  He must have loved his wife very much, Faith thought. He can’t even bear to speak of her after ten years.

  All day the land flowed by as Faith watched out the window, fascinated by the enormity of the spaces that stretched out, seemingly endless. The coaches stretched taut in their couplings and slammed together when the engine abated speed. Cinders pelted the windows, and smoke streamed back the length of the train. A rare siding appeared from time to time, and sometimes a yellow section shanty stood lonely in the sun. Antelope bands appeared, flowing over the broken land in a water-smooth motion, a beautiful sight that pleased Faith greatly. Later she fell asleep until she was awakened as the conductor cried, “Bismarck!”

  “Quick trip,” Winslow nodded. As he rose to his feet and stretched his muscles, Faith noted the town’s gray out-sheds and slovenly shanties; then the train stopped and she got to her feet. When they stepped outside, he collected her baggage and said, “Is anyone meeting you?”

  “Yes,” she replied, looking around. A man and a woman were coming toward her. “I think they may be the ones.”

  Winslow watched as the couple approached and asked, “Miss Jamison?” It seemed odd to him that she would be met by strangers, but as was his custom, he didn’t pry. He got his bags, gave the smaller one to Laurie, and looked up as Faith d
rew near.

  “You’ve been very kind,” she said. “Thank you for all your trouble.”

  Winslow took his hat off, saying, “Glad to be of help.” He wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the right words. Been with Indians so much I can’t even talk to my own people, he mused, irritated at the thought.

  “Miss Jamison,” Laurie said quickly, “thank you for the book. I’ll never lose this one.”

  Faith smiled, then impulsively gave the girl a hug. “I’ll think of you, Laurie.”

  A quick stab of regret ran through Winslow. Laurie needs a woman, he thought, and he said quickly, “If you’ll be here in Bismarck, perhaps we can see you again. We’ll be living at Fort Abraham Lincoln.”

  Faith’s expression changed, and she exclaimed, “Why, how nice! Perhaps you’ll let Laurie come and stay with me sometime.” She gave the girl a warm smile, adding, “We could read lots of books together, couldn’t we?”

  “I’d like that,” Laurie said, her eyes glowing.

  Faith turned to the couple, who had drawn off to one side, watching with interest. “This is Reverend Willis Crenshaw and his wife,” she said, then nodded toward the Winslows. “And this is Mr. Winslow and his daughter Laurie. They were very helpful to me on the trip.”

  Willis Crenshaw was a slight, wiry man of fifty with a smooth, pale face. There was something about his manners that proclaimed his calling, not at all displeasing, however. His eyes were warm and brown behind small rimless glasses, and his voice was deep and resonant. “Happy to meet you, sir,” he nodded. “Are you staying in Bismarck?”

  “I’ll be joining the Seventh Cavalry, Reverend,” Tom said, and his statement drew a surprised glance from Faith.

  “Indeed? A fine body of men, and General Custer has my full admiration. You must come and visit our church, Mr. Winslow. It’s small, but we feel it’s a fine one for all of that.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Crenshaw,” Winslow nodded, picking up his bags. “Let’s go Laurie.”

  “Have you known Mr. Winslow long, Miss Jamison?” Mrs. Crenshaw asked. She was a plain woman, appearing to be somewhat older than her husband, perhaps because she looked emaciated and sickly.

  “Oh no. We met on the trip.”

  Mrs. Crenshaw frowned, but she said only, “You must be exhausted. Come along, Pastor, let’s take Miss Jamison to the house.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Crenshaw nodded, and scurried off to get Faith’s luggage into the buggy. When they were on the way to the parsonage, he commented, “We were expecting a married couple for the work here, Miss Jamison. It’s difficult for a single woman.” Then he saw from her expression that he had said the wrong thing. “Well, you’ll find the work here difficult, but rewarding.” Faith listened as he spoke cheerfully about the new addition on the church building that he was planning.

  After watching the Crenshaws take off in the direction of the town, Winslow asked the agent, “How far to Fort Lincoln?”

  “Four miles.” He nodded toward an elderly man carrying a sack of mail out to a wagon. “Ride along with Jed there if you’d like. Tell him I said it’d be all right.”

  “I appreciate it.” He turned, picked up the bags, and when he and Laurie got to the wagon, said, “The agent told us we might ride with you to the fort.”

  “Sure. Put your stuff in the back.” Winslow dumped the bags in the bed of the wagon, helped Laurie to the seat, then joined her. As the wagon moved briskly along, the harness chains made a little melody. They passed along a crooked road that ran toward a high plateau upon which sat a group of houses. Beyond that lay bottom lands reaching to the Missouri River. “There’s the fort,” the driver mentioned, waving his hand toward a bluff on the opposite shore.

  The wagon eased down to the deck of a river steamer, once glamorous but now dilapidated. As soon as the wagon was aboard, the engines began to send a shuddering through the ship; and when they were halfway across, the current caught the ship and Winslow thought the captain had lost control. The driver, however, showed no concern, but merely spat an amber stream of tobacco juice into the muddy waters. When the ship nosed into the slip, the driver released his brakes, whipped his team into a run, and went up the grade to the top of the bluff.

  “There she is,” he announced.

  Winslow got his first glimpse of Fort Abraham Lincoln, which occupied a broad level plain between the river and the slope. Like most frontier forts, it was not fortified. Instead, it had groups of buildings arranged with military precision around a parade ground. Officers’ row, a line of seven frame houses, edged the parade ground on the west at the base of the plateau. Facing the officers’ line from the east side of the parade ground were three barracks for enlisted men, with some attached buildings, probably for kitchens and mess halls. Completing the rectangle on the north and south were other buildings, which Winslow accurately guessed to be the structures needed for any installation—commissary and quartermaster storehouses, adjutant’s office, guardhouse, and hospital. Beyond the barracks Winslow saw the stables and other crude buildings, mostly for the laundresses and their soldier husbands.

  The driver passed by the guardhouse post, saying, “Commissary,” and was waved in.

  “Do you know where the adjutant’s office might be?”

  “Down there at the end of them buildings.”

  “Thanks for the ride.” Winslow picked up his suitcase, gave the lighter one to Laurie, and the two of them walked down the wooden walk. It was late afternoon, and the sun was dropping below the ridge to the west of the fort.

  When they reached the adjutant’s office, they would have turned in, but at that moment a tall man with a fine bearded face stepped out. He was wearing a dress helmet with a plume and a sabre. Pausing abruptly, he asked, “Can I help you?”

  “We’ll wait until after retreat,” Winslow said.

  “All right.” The officer continued on, leaving the pair to watch the daily ceremony. Five cavalry companies filed out from the stables to the parade ground, the commands of the officers crisp on the afternoon air. Horsemen trotted briskly, lifting quick puffs of dust from the hard parade ground. One by one, the five companies came into regimental front, each company mounted on horses of matched color, each company’s guidon colorfully waving from the pole affixed in the socket of the guidon corporal’s stirrup. For a moment the regiment remained still, each trooper sitting erect in his saddle.

  The adjutant wheeled his horse and came to a halt before the commanding officer, whom Winslow recognized at once as George Armstrong Custer. General Custer’s face was known to most people in America; in fact, he’d become a living legend, his name a household word. Though he was the poorest scholar of his West Point class of 1861, he had been promoted to major general at the age of twenty-five, the youngest in either army, achieving this distinction by his love of bold action and wild charges into the guns of the enemy. He loved the spotlight, and would do anything to attract attention.

  Now he saluted the adjutant, spoke a brief word, and the band burst into a brisk march. The officers of the regiment rode slowly front and center, formed a rank, and moved toward the commanding officer, who received their salutes. Then the band stepped out and marched down the front of the regiment, wheeled and marched back. There was a moment of silence, then the massed buglers sounded retreat as the flag was lowered from the pole. When it was in the hands of the trooper waiting to receive it, Custer’s voice rent the air, “Pass in review!”

  The first sergeants wheeled, calling sharp commands, and the band broke into another march. The regiment passed before the commanding officer; then at the end of the parade ground, each company pulled away toward its own stable.

  As the ceremony ended, one of the officers broke away from the others and came toward the walk. “Tom Winslow!” he called. Winslow turned as the slight officer strode toward him. “I’m Captain Thomas Custer, the general’s younger brother. We’ve been expecting you,” he said, extending his hand to Tom. His restless eyes turned toward
Laurie. “This must be your daughter.” He shook hands and smiled at the girl. “You’ll be staying with a very nice lady tonight—Mrs. Jennings.” He searched the rim of the parade ground, then said, “There she is. Come along.”

  The woman was about twenty-five, Winslow judged. She had dark blue eyes, brown hair, and an attractive round face. “Mrs. Jennings, this is Mr. Tom Winslow and his daughter Laurie. This is Mrs. Eileen Jennings.”

  Winslow pulled off his hat and acknowledged the introduction. “I hope we’re not putting you out, Mrs. Jennings?”

  “Not at all.” Her voice was precise and she looked at the girl rather than at him. “Laurie, let me take you to the house. Then your father can join us later for supper.”

  Laurie raised her eyes to her father, who smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly to the lady. As the two walked away, Tom heard Mrs. Jennings asking Laurie about her journey, and Laurie’s response. “I met a lady who gave me a book . . ..”

  Winslow turned to Captain Custer. “I appreciate your finding someone, sir,” he said. “Is she one of the officer’s wives?”

  “Her husband, Frank, was killed by the Sioux six months ago,” Custer said briefly. “She has no family, so she’s stayed on here. Fine woman,” he commented, then added rather obliquely, “Not interested in men—not yet, anyway.” Then he nodded, saying, “Let’s go talk.”

  “Fine.”

  The two men entered a small office just off the back of one of the buildings. “I share this with Weir and Moylan, but they use it a lot more than I do.” He waved to one of the chairs, then pulled a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet fastened to the wall. Without asking, he filled two glasses and placed one in front of Winslow. He fell into one of the chairs, drained his glass, and gave a convulsive shudder. Then he grinned at Winslow. “Winslow, I’m glad you’re here. Going to be a big show, and you’ll be right in the middle of it.”

  “Well, thanks, sir,” Winslow answered. He twirled the glass gently, observing the swirls it made on the worn desk.