“We must put your talents on display. But here…,” he showed Caspion into his quarters; “Please, make yourself at home. I have some matters to attend. And we’ll talk later.” Meanwhile, as the two men parted, the wolf-dog faithfully lay down on the rough planking by the door, absorbed in the many sights, sounds, and smells and soon dozed in the afternoon sun.
That evening, dining with the officers, Caspion fidgeted in his chair; the boots pinched his feet, the clothes were new and stiff, rough to his skin. And he felt slightly off balance, like his saddle wasn’t properly cinched and he had to constantly shift his weight to avoid falling. He hadn’t set at a table since leaving Hays, hadn’t shared the company of another human being in over two months, let alone adjust in one evening to the high form and etiquette expected of officers and gentlemen. Unaccustomed to social constraint or floors, walls and ceilings, he felt caged. While the wine helped, one glass was hardly sufficient; and the bottle was beyond reach, set before the half-breed scout who Muldarrin had just introduced and who often shared their table—invited weekly, not for his conversation, which was spare, but for his blunt views gleaned from a life lived among the Indians. And tonight, his presence sought no doubt in part to forestall Caspion’s unease, breach the social stiffness and enliven the atmosphere.
For Cupé Boudin—son of a French voyageur and an Assiniboine Sioux, who claimed Mexican-Apache blood as well, and spoke a polyglot of languages, including sign—was that rare aesthetic who could dance his juba as happily in heaven or in hell, and feast indifferent among man, God, or beast. In true frontier tradition his sole cutlery was his knife which he employed with admirable dexterity. A small, wiry man, quite dark, with straight black hair tied in back, a smooth hairless face, refined features, and sharp intelligent eyes, he dressed entirely in fringed buckskin, but was clean and in no sense rude, rather soft-spoken, with a subtle intonation, and his motions while eating all strictly confined to the vicinity of his plate. But since the wine had come to rest before him, he felt no compunction to pass it on, nor the least reluctance to indulge; he’d twice refilled his glass—compelled perhaps out of Gallic pride, or more simply, thirst.
This was the one man, aside from Muldarrin, that Caspion found interesting; intrigued by his nature, even his silence was animate. And it helped, indeed, his presence there, to bridge the wary moment. Presently, Muldarrin rescued the bottle and emptied the contents in Caspion’s glass. Which the latter promptly raised to his lips in gratitude, savoring the warm intoxicant.
Gradually, Caspion found the rhythm and eased into the flow of conversation; and naturally enough, once he started fielding questions, his became the dominant narrative. In the play of words he relaxed, his clothes fit him and he set his chair like a time-worn saddle, for his words were as good as any man’s, but his deeds and recent experience were truly exceptional. And Caspion, a born performer, played to their fascination; Muldarrin, too, had only seen the robe and not yet heard the tale that Caspion now spun, marking the adventure in crisp strokes appropriate to men of action, minus any subtle or mystical shading known only to himself.
“So there I was, flat on my belly,” he said, “studying how to kill the white, when I turned and saw Sam scalped amidst a howl of warriors. And brave? No. As there was no cover, I dashed for the herd and let the dust cover my retreat…”—in such manner he kept them riveted with the Cheyenne surprise, his friend’s implacable death, and his own panic and escape, riding through a million-hoofed stampede, desperately trailing the phantom white…up to his quiet reverence at the seductive moment he took its life and so acquired the robe.
“When that bullet struck its eye…,” he vouched, “even the wind hushed.”
And Cupé Boudin’s was not the only mouth that hung slack, empty of food or drink throughout, but his was the first to voice a question. He wished to know—”S’il vous plait, Monsieur”—where and when the robe was taken, near what tributary, in what month. Upon hearing the answer, he nodded—”Très bien, merci”—seemingly most amazed by the detail of time and place.
Caspion then briefly described the slaughter he’d witnessed along the Arkansas; following which he told of his long reconnoiter over the Staked Plains of Texas, south to the Red River—of the vast herds of buffalo, the number and kind of other animals seen, of the various Indians observed and avoided, of the general terrain, condition of grass, and scarcity of water. But still, the reason for his journey left unnamed. He finished his wine and stated bluntly that the land was best suited for and left to the roaming herds and the nomadic hunter, in his words “too damn dry for any plow or settlement.”
“There’s the rub…,” he said, gathering the gaze of all present; “If you think me a fool to ride these regions alone, I say to you that the greater fools are clamoring to own this land…to parcel it up and farm it.” And if few agreed with his summation, all smiled obligingly, for the Colonel’s honored guest had proved entertaining.
Again, the first to speak was Cupé Boudin.
“Mais Monsieur,” he said, pointing to the robe, “there is why you live. La Robe Blanche est powerful medicine. For there are beaucoup des Kiowa et Comanche down that way. Très terrible. Sacré…you are lucky to keep your hair.” Then he swept his knife around his left wrist: the motion indicating a warrior’s act of lifting a scalp. And his eyes flashed holding up the imagined trophy as laughter rounded the table.
Cupé Boudin lived in a tepee beyond the walled fort with his Cheyenne wife, Hatchet Paw. Her left hand had been maimed when she was a child by the raiding Pawnee. A true squaw—silent, round, and sweet-faced. How Cupé acquired her, he never said. And now, as the men excused themselves and rose to leave, Cupé invited Caspion to visit their lodge next day.
XVII. Soldier Brothers
The Colonel had prompted the men to retire early, suggesting that Caspion was no doubt wore out from his journey and their many questions; in fact, Muldarrin was looking forward to the evening alone with his old friend. Uncorking the Beaujolais, he poured a generous portion into either glass…wine the deepest red to warm a soldier’s blood.
Muldarrin’s hair had thinned considerably, the widow’s peak retreating to a weak salient above his high-crowned forehead. His sideburns had grayed, while his hazel eyes seemed to have lightened. Otherwise he appeared remarkably unchanged in seven years. Which is not such a long time, but sufficient for a babe to become a child, or a child to blossom into youth, for one to acquire wealth or profound knowledge or embark on an odyssey and return from the far ends of the earth. In such a span a dog is born, grows old and dies; and on the frontier, exposed daily to the lashing wind, the heat and cold, this measure could swiftly age a man. Caspion now appeared Muldarrin’s senior, and in part always had been. Something neither man would acknowledge, yet sensed by both.
And observing Caspion, Muldarrin thought of a passage from his favorite poet, Whitman: “I too am not a bit tamed; I too am untranslatable…” For to him Caspion embodied man’s timeless nature, approaching the mythical—definitely heroic. And he said as much while again examining the robe.
“Your tale stirs my blood, Caspion, like when I was a boy and first read of the Golden Fleece. And I wonder of the Sleepless Dragon that follows you. There is more here than meets the eye.” Then he turned with a smile. “Which reminds me. I hear you had some trouble in Hays with a certain major over a wickedly beautiful redhead…a veritable Medea.”
Caspion glanced up in question.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Muldarrin continued; “The army is like a small family, especially on the frontier. Word travels fast. Major Cambridge accompanied me on my introductory tour from Leavenworth to Fort Dodge. During that long week, I found the man a pompous boor. But he has powerful patrons in Washington, so sadly, from time to time, his presence must be endured. That is until someone of more casual temper than yourself puts him where the worms may untie the knots of his ill-reason and stupefying contempt…thus free his mind to receive the nobler notion
of our good earth.”
Caspion quickly dismissed any thought of Major Cambridge, but the word nobler struck him as he perceived this quality in his friend. Muldarrin seemed to represent the best in man; a nature rooted in the classic ideal: of stature, thought, and action. “Noble”—like General Lee. Though capable of violence, he was never vulgar and could aptly deal with all manner of men. There was something Caspion had long wished to confide. Something awakened by the mention of the red-haired Medea—Alice…one not easily forgotten. And certain phrases echoed with her haunting memory, their last night shared, and the warm red wine: “You are a man heedless of odds…,” she’d said; “Were you never brave…? You are no Hickok, Caspion, Caspion, Caspion…” Something sparked as well by Muldarrin’s praise that afternoon. Something that had scarred his soul when the saber first scared his flesh.
“Today you called me brave…”—Caspion slowly swirled his wine and sifted his thoughts. “But sir, no man who survives four years of war is brave. Wily, lucky, blest, cursed…all that. But not brave.”
Muldarrin sensed his urgent tone, sat back and awaited the words to come.
“You knew, of course,” Caspion began, “that my old company had been badly mauled. Lost the captain, most officers, and over half the men. Only a handful escaped a wound. The remnants later assigned to you…those that volunteered, sent East to regroup the Iron Brigade…which had suffered much the same at Gettysburg.
“All happened about mid-March. Beware the Ides, they say. Still cold…rain and mud, rain and mud. Day after day, it never seemed to end. Black trees, naked limbs, a bleak gray sky. But all quiet. No fighting through the winter to speak of…just the usual sniping between the pickets. One morning the rain stopped, the clouds parted a crack. A bird sang of spring. And we’d no more than smiled when the vidette came crashing through our lines, riding flat-out, yelling to one and all that the Rebs were on the move, heading our way fast, coming through the timber. Word spread amid the panic, the bugle called. Troops, wild-eyed and scrambling, fell-in. Ranks readied to march out and meet the foe. Hearts drumming in tight chests, gripped breathless in that knot of fear.
“In a flash of sunlight our captain rode forth, waving his saber above his fine plumed hat, shouting out one order then countermanding that, nervous as a sapling in a high wind…and every bit as green. Captain William ‘Billy Boy’ Hampton. A high-born whelp, all of twenty-two. Been in one fight the previous autumn, following which he had the first-sergeant shot for throwing down the colors. The man hadn’t run, simply fell and clawed the earth before a withering fire. But there were examples made and standards kept that none relished the sight of. And marching out, all knew we should have stayed behind the breastworks, remained entrenched and awaited the attack. Most likely we’d have scattered ’em with a single volley. We threw ’em back right enough, but not till we’d nearly crossed that quarter-mile clearing. The advancing Rebs drew our fire just out of range, then turned tail and scat! Hit for the trees. Like a dog on a cat, our captain ordered us to ready bayonets and charge at the double-quick. We sicced ’em alright, but the cat played the mouse. Them Johnnies weren’t fools and we took the bait.
“Our pant-legs slapped together, soaked from the rain in the knee-high grass, legs leaden like in a bad-dream where everything slows, about to stop. A rabbit jumped up and hurried off. We envied him and longed to wake from the dream, but kept slogging on. The sunlight glistened off the dew, and our buckles, tins, and rifles…jingled like cattle off to pasture. A pasture of slaughter. In a blink they opened up with a cloud of smoke and deafening blast, all along our front. The woods at thirty yards thick with infantry and cannon firing hub to hub.
“Air and ground bursts, sizzling steal and hot lead, the zip, whine, thud of buck ’n ball, canister and grape…shrapnel from every exploding piece of hell tearing the flesh like a thousand fangs. Legs blown away, torsos halved, arms flung wide, mute-screams lost in the endless howl, shriek, and thunder as the air vomited muck of man. In one harrowing breath most lay dead, ranks cut down, life winnowed from the flesh by a reaper set to harvest each. By some twisted miracle a few still stood, dumb-struck. And I don’t know if I was the first to run, but I damn sure wasn’t the last. Dropped my rifle and soon outstripped ’em all.
“But our captain, bravely leading from behind, spurred his mount and rode me down, threatened a firing squad. Likely thought to turn me with the others and win the day. And likely only meant to slap me with his sword, but the world all in fragments, he caught me a good one on the down-stroke. My belt buckle saved me from being sliced rib to bowel. Still, a ghastly wound. I clutched my gut and dropped to my knees. Then raised my head for the final coup. I swear…he looked as shocked as me. Or maybe he had a premonition…an inkling. Because in the next instant, quick as that”—Caspion snapped his finger—“a cannonball took his head clean off at the shoulders. While the plumed hat flew, his body set the saddle, reins in one hand, sword in the other. Then the legs kicked briefly as if to spur away. But too late. His body pitched and fell and the spooked horse ran from the headless corpse. I’ve seen some chickens flop…but that was a sight to behold. Though retch or laugh, either way, I’d have died right there, my guts spilled to the ground.
“Somehow I made my way through the trees, past our lines. No trouble with the provost guard, I showed blood aplenty. Grew faint, couldn’t focus. I remember sitting down a spell…a terrible thirst…trembling from the wound and fear of battle, of dying. But more terrified of the surgeons’ tent I spied nearby. That gave me strength. I held my gut and staggered on half-blind in search of Ol’ Callus. Found him, or more likely, he found me. That was Callus Brown, Captain…,” Caspion explained, “of the colored regiment. I spoke of him on occasion. He’d play banjo to my guitar. Taught me a thousand songs…” Muldarrin nodded, remembered hearing about the man and slave songs and spirituals wrested from the soul.
“Callus laid me down and looked me over some. Quiet and calm as I gripped his sleeve and begged him not to take me to the surgeons. He just pshawed and shook his head…I thought to declare me a goner. But his were sweet words of mercy spoke by an ebony angel. ‘Boy, don’t fret yo’self,’ he said…” Caspion smiled and heard again that honeyed voice: “No fool gwin touch ma dowg, no fool gwin touch ma man. Lissen up hair. I fexed Ol’ Massa’s hosses wus cut den dis. Ah hunert taimes an’ mow. An’ deys prays hosses too. Wuth any ten niggars, an’ lees fo’ o’ fav a’yuins. Huh? So saves yo’ breath fo’ singin’, bo’, Callus gots de cure…”
“My, he was a cocky one, Ol’ Callus…could strut right dandy when he knew the ground. But he had the healing gift, sure enough. And he gave me hope. He laid my hands back over the wound and gently pressed ’em down. It was evening by then. He cradled me in his arms and carried me to his tent…I remember gazing on the Drinking Gourd in the deep sky and breathing in all the star-borne elixirs the night would yield. Then entering the darkness of the tent, I blacked out.
“I was delirious for a number of days with fever and pain, lying in some twilight, I suppose…where dreams and memories mix and shadows stand and walk about. I recall snippets here and there, like pages turned till one falls open to a familiar passage. Maybe it was just the fever, but I remember blankets of warm vapor and Ol’ Callus leaning over me, chanting some old African lullaby. He’d fan the smoke and wipe the wound with tobacco tea. Then he covered it with the brewed leaves and a poultice of sourdough that smelled of honey. And it was soothing, like a gentle hand rubbing away the ache. At times its ghost lies there still…,” Caspion absently rubbed the scar. “He also served a foul smelling stew, hard to swallow, but I kept it down. From time to time he’d add a sip of whiskey to help me sleep. And when he deemed me ready, he stitched me up. That I recall like a slow branding…the pain flared each time he worked the needle in and tucked the thread. But his hands were quick and firm. Ol’ Callus…he knew his business. My head soon cleared, my flesh strengthened, the stitches held. In a few weeks he had me back
on line.
“My enlistment nearly up, I was none too keen on dying. Planned to await the ‘eagle’ then light out west…skedaddle rather than face the music of the black guitar again. All played out. Then you showed up that day to enlist volunteers for the Iron Brigade. I admired your manner and fixed to join, signed on and headed east under new command. Once I’d met my Captain, I was set to pluck ’n strum to the bitter end.”
The tale finished and his burden shared, Caspion looked to Muldarrin.
“So with good reason, sir, I ask you not to call me brave. Though I’m ever honored to be called your friend.”
“To call you ‘friend’ is my privilege, and to call you ‘brave’ is your due,” Muldarrin smiled, then reached over and gripped his shoulder.
“No, Caspion, I’ll not amend a word,” he said. “For I remember well, within a month we were at the Wilderness, and through that wicked fight you were at my side. Many times you directed me and once knocked me to the ground to parry the bayonet thrust that nearly caught me blind. Death charged through the gray mist and death you bravely dealt. You saved my life that day. And shortly thereafter, at Spotsylvania, who stood at the head of that bloody struggle, fighting atop the breastworks, casting a heroic spell like a champion from the Iliad? Who…?”
Caspion let the question lapse then quietly answered: “Only because I loved my Captain…and would not have him stand alone.”
“But I stood back of you, my friend,” the other countered. “And when you fell, I feared you were dead. All stopped a vacant moment, in a trice your light gone, taken by the black eclipse. I shot the one who struck you down. Then knelt to find you were only dazed, your nose laid over, but your blood still pulsed and I dragged you away.”
“That was you?”
“That it was. And catching my breath, I stood briefly, watching the battle play before my eyes. Strange how fortune smiles. From that vantage I spied a breach opening on our flank. Graybacks about to sweep our line. I rushed with reinforcements and our sector held. Though all paid dearly that day…on that horrid rain-soaked field. Like every victory in that war, shadowed by the cost in blood. The huzzahs were the screams of the wounded and dying. A tragic glory for the Blue and the Gray, embracing at the end in silence and grief. Such is the Union we preserved. Yet through it all you were brave, as brave as any I ever saw or heard tell of. Brave as they who fell or walked away. You refused commendation…that I respected. But suffer a friend to call you brave, for I’d rather burn in Hell than fail to state that truth. May I say this then, and toast you thus? To Caspion…,” he vowed, raising his glass, “forever my brave friend.”
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 19