Whining milquetoasts, he thought to himself. What in Hell did they expect? This is the Frontier, not Fifth Avenue.
And so he simply stood by and listened to the rain and waited, waited, for the weather to clear, for his engineer to show up, or for the president to arrive, whichever came first.
Beyond the canvas-roofed pavilion and the tiny telegraph shack, the riverbank was a disaster. Immense stacks of timbers, girders, crates, and barrels filled the wide slice of land that lay between the quay and the roadway. The ground was a bog of slick goo and ankle-deep muck crisscrossed by a web-work of board-plank walkways. The rain—now in its third day—had saturated the entire region. The Missouri, so warm and stately in summer, now resembled more its Indian name: the Big Greasy.
It shuffled past, swollen and viscous beneath the heavy clouds. Choppy wavelets covered it shore to shore, and at the water’s edge flecks of foam collected among the inundated clumps of cattail and sedge.
“It’s a miserable place with miserable weather,” Herron muttered to himself, “but at least we’re underway.”
His aide, Quincy, standing nearby, took a step closer. “Sir?” the captain asked solicitously. “Did you say something?”
“Yes,” Herron growled, irritated at having been overheard. “I said where in Hell is Shafer?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” his aide said. “He assured me he’d be...Oh, here he comes, sir.” Quincy pointed toward a stack of timbers.
Lieutenant Colonel Shafer spotted Quincy and waved, grinning as if spying an old friend. He walked straight across the mire, ignoring the wooden boardwalks and dirtying his trousers to the calves. He looked up into the rain as he approached, squinting through the fogged lenses of his spectacles like a man enjoying a sunny Sunday in the park.
“G’d afternoon, General,” he said as he sauntered up to the pavilion, his Manitoba accent flat and hard. “Hey-o, Quince.” He took off his glasses and smeared at them with a wet handkerchief. “Helluva bit of weather, eh?”
“You are late, Colonel,” said Herron. He pointed to the unbuttoned collar of Shafer’s Army frock coat. “And out of uniform.”
Shafer’s grin widened, as he settled the temple pieces of his glasses behind his ears. “I suppose you’re right to be a stickler on such points, General, especially on an important day like today.” He winked at Quincy as he buttoned the collar of his uniform. “At least I got here before the big man arrived, eh?”
“I’ve never known a politician to be on time to anything,” Herron said. “The president may have been a soldier once, but he’s a politician now. Ah, this must be they.”
A covered carriage pulled by two huge drays slogged its way over a rise in the supply road that would eventually be covered with rails. The carriage teetered and swayed down the puddled, muddy track and Herron did not envy those inside for a moment. As the carriage came up and pulled to a stop, the door to the telegraph shack opened and out came the men of the press like hornets out of an opened nest. They ran toward the carriage just as the doors opened.
Custer stepped down onto the carriage step, took off his tall hat, and waved to the gathering. His features, well past youth, were beginning to look haggard and his mustache and long, pale hair were starting to whiten with age.
“Mister President,” shouted one of the newspapermen. “How was your trip?”
Herron rolled his eyes. “Jesus,” he said so that only Quincy and Shafer could hear. “He just spent five hours locked up in a carriage that swayed like a drunken sailor with no other person for company than—”
“Senator Matherly,” shouted another of the reporters as that man appeared from within the carriage. “Is it true that your father-in-law is a major shareholder in the iron foundry chosen as the supplier for this project?”
Matherly stepped down from the carriage, waving. “It’s a pleasure to be here,” he said, ignoring the question completely.
The president and the senator, with a handful of aides and a bevy of Army privates holding umbrellas, came toward the pavilion. The officers saluted their Commander-in-Chief. Custer shook the rain from his lapels and returned the greeting.
“Mr. President, Senator Matherly,” Herron said. “May I present Lieutenant Colonel Craig M. Shafer, chief architect and engineer for this project.”
Custer gave Shafer a frank, up-and-down appraisal. “Get caught in the weather, Colonel?”
Shafer grinned and snapped off a superfluous salute. “Yes, sir! Actually, sir, I did, sir!”
Herron glared at the engineer. “Don’t get cheeky, Shafer.”
“Sorry, sir!”
Custer raised an eyebrow. “This is the man you want, General?”
“Yes, sir. He’s the man I want for this job.”
“And if he can’t do it?”
“Then I kick his ass into the river and get someone who can, sir.”
Custer smiled. “Correct, General. I’m glad to see you don’t think too highly of this man here.”
Herron’s mouth twitched in a wry smile. “Sir, excepting you and me, of course, I don’t think too highly of anyone here.”
Custer chuckled.
The weather chose that moment to send a blast of wind in from the west. The pavilion shuddered and its taut ropes sang a siren song. The men all held onto their hats and the newspapermen protected their notes from the rain. Herron shivered at the sudden cold from off the river. The wind blew for a long minute and then the air fell quiet. It took a moment for everyone to compose themselves, and as they did Herron realized that the weather had changed.
“It’s stopped raining,” he said.
“So it has,” Custer agreed. “How providential. Colonel Shafer, what say you give us a quick tour of the site before the clouds open up again?”
Shafer prudently looked to his general for instructions.
Herron nodded. “Stick to the walkways, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir,” Shafer said. “Mr. President. Senator Matherly. If you would follow me, please.”
Shafer led the way. Custer, Matherly, and Herron followed. Behind them, the press followed along in a clump, notepads up, pencils scratching. They reminded Herron more of a troop of raccoons looking for handouts than the chroniclers of current events. The other guests came along at the rear, straggling along the narrow walkways.
Shafer took them first out toward the piles of supplies.
“Naturally,” he began, “most of this so far has come to us via the river.” He pointed to the stacks of logs, timbers, lumber, and iron girders and plates. “Eventually, of course, we will be receiving our materiel by rail. That will be some time from now, however. Besides, we’ll need the barges for the construction process as well as toting supplies up from the Gulf.”
He looked at the president when he spoke, but his voice was pitched so the reporters and guests could hear as well.
“The logs and timbers will be used for pilings and in the construction of the two main footings for the bridge. The wrought iron I-beams and plates will be used in the superstructure for the main span.”
“Main span?” Matherly asked. “I thought there was to be only one span?”
Shafer nodded as he led them along the narrow boardwalks toward the quay. “One main span, yes, Senator. But look.” He pointed to the broad river before them. “That water is five hundred yards wide. It would take a decade to build a single span to bridge it, and you don’t want to pay for that, eh?”
Matherly’s nervous laugh was echoed by the assembled state dignitaries. “No,” he said. “We don’t.”
“Didn’t think so. I’ve planned then for two smaller spans, one from either shore, built of simple, efficient trestle-work.” He set his hands apart to depict the breadth of the river and then drew them slowly toward one another. “These shore-based spans will reach out across the water to where it hits a depth of about thirty feet. There we’ll build two large bulwarks that will serve as the footings for the main span.” With his hands he described a bridging
curve. “The main span will be a long, graceful arc that will rise high enough above the water to accommodate the largest steamers on the river.” He pointed to the middle of the river. “The deck will be sixty feet above the water and a clear eight hundred feet from end to end. It will be a bridge unlike any other in America.”
“How so?” asked a reporter.
Shafer warmed to his subject. He smiled, and Herron saw a gleam in his eye. “When I was in China,” he started.
“You were in China, Colonel?”
“Yes. I served for the British during the Opium Wars.”
“General,” said one of the reporters. “Have you enlisted a foreign national to lead this project?”
“The colonel is an American,” Herron said.
“Born in Santee Territory,” Shafer said. “But raised in Canada. And as I was saying, when I was in China, I studied the bridge-building techniques of Canton, Nanking, and Kowloon. Later, in Europe, I worked with Eiffel on his bridge that spanned the Douro at Oporto. This bridge will incorporate the newest ideas of Eiffel and Roebling, with the ancient methods of the T’ang Dynasty. The best of the old and the new. A bridge to last a thousand years. Large girder structures will travel upward and inward to form an arch that resembles the handle of a basket. From this arch, the deck will be suspended from cables. This bridge will incorporate the functionality of beams, arches, and suspension—”
The president raised a hand, halting Shafer midstream. “Colonel,” he said. “Your enthusiasm is infectious—I feel I can see it there already—but you lose me with such technicalities.”
Shafer expelled the breath he was holding. “My apologies, sir. I do get wrapped up in the details sometimes.”
Shafer’s tour had taken them down to the quays and back near the pavilion that stood at what would be the foot of the new bridge. Herron stepped forward and took charge of the proceedings.
“Thank you, Colonel,” he said. “Mr. President, Senator Matherly, if you would follow me, I’d like to put you both to work.”
He led them back under the canvas awning where Quincy was waiting with two polished steel shovels. The captain handed one to Custer and one to Matherly and directed them over to a place at the top of the riverbank where the uneasy Missouri and the wide, empty land beyond it could act as a backdrop.
The local dignitaries looked on as the president and senator sunk their spades and turned over a shovelful of mud. A photographer quickly exposed a plate.
Herron stood back after the formalities were complete and watched as the locals and the reporters buzzed around their president. Custer worked the crowd, spoke to everyone, and deftly deflected questions when they grew too pointed, but his glance began to stray, pulled with greater frequency by something out across the water. In time, Custer excused himself and made his way over to where Herron was standing.
“Rain’s starting up again,” Custer said, looking for the fifth time out across the Missouri. “We got lucky.”
“I try not to depend on luck, sir.”
Custer looked up at the canvas roof over their heads. “I see that.” Another long look across the water.
“Mister President, is there something bothering you?”
“Are you married, General?”
“No, sir,” Herron said, not flinching at the change in subject. “Widowed, sir.”
“Ah, I see. Any children?”
Herron scowled, unused to such personal probing. “No, sir,” he said. “Marguerite and I...we didn’t have long together.”
“Well, now, that’s a shame,” Custer said. He looked across the Missouri again and this time his gaze did not waver. “I have children.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two daughters. And a son.”
“Yes, sir,” Herron said. “So I’ve heard.”
“The girls. They’re at home with their mother.”
“That’s a good place for them, sir.”
“My son, however, you may also have heard...” Custer pointed toward the dark shore on the far side. “He’s over there...somewhere.”
Herron heard the weakness in his commander’s voice. Custer looked not so much like a president than as a man struggling with the tragedies of his life. “Mr. President,” he said. “If I may speak freely...”
Custer nodded, but did not look away from the long dark line of the prairie.
“Mr. President. The Frontier does not give men back. It either kills them, or it keeps them.” He took a breath to decide whether to say more, then continued. “I know about loss, personal loss, sir, first-hand, and if I may be allowed to give you a piece of advice—one that has helped me—I would tell you this: Your son is gone. You will never see him again. Consider him dead. Grieve, to be sure, but do not pine, for that way lies madness. Your son is not ‘out there,’ sir. He is gone, and the sooner you get right with that, the better you’ll be.”
Custer stared at the steel-gray waters and the land they bordered for a few moments longer, then turned to look Herron right in the eye.
“Thank you, General Herron. I will keep that in mind.” Then he walked back to the gathering.
Now that, Herron thought with satisfaction, is the look of a leader.
Carefully, George tied the thin snare line into a noose and draped it across the narrow track that ran among the bushes near Two Fingers Creek. He dusted the ground with dried pine needles and mulch and camouflaged the rest of the noose with bracken. After a final recheck of the stake that held the line to the ground, he picked up the grouse the snare had trapped and backed away slowly, gently repositioning branches and fronds in his retreat.
He retraced his steps back through the thickening brush of springtime, to where his walker lay, silent and still. George added the grouse to the three rabbits, one fox, and brace of pheasant that hung from the wicker backrest. They were the fruits of the snares, traps, and deadfalls he had set throughout the mountains that surrounded the band’s winter camp. He scratched at the stubble on his chin and grimaced.
“Have to shave again,” he said to his walker in the language of the People. She only huffed a misty breath and rolled one eye around to look at him.
“A lot you care,” he said to her. “You don’t have to scrape your face clean with a...” He tried to construct the word. “...A knife-that-cannot-cut-butter.” He smiled with self-satisfaction. “Come on,” he said as he mounted. “Nóheto.” Let’s go!
The walker stood. George laid down flat along her spine but still the lower tree branches brushed his back. It was not a comfortable position. His walker had not eaten during the winter months, living off her stored summer fat instead, and her spine was now quite pronounced.
“A little lower,” he told her and she complied, giving him more room. Then, with a gentle nudge of his toe, she started off; a cautious walk at first as they threaded their way through the low-limbed evergreens, but soon she moved up to a slow trot as they came to the established trails used by deer, elk, and bear.
With another nudge of his left toe, George steered his mount downslope. The walker planted her three-toed feet solidly on the forest’s needle-carpeted floor but also in relative quiet. Despite her size, she made no more noise than an elk trotting down the trail.
They came out of the trees and into a meadow and George was glad for the opportunity to sit up on his knees. His walker chuffed—a harsh, throaty sound—and then roared. George looked out ahead and saw a herd of elk pounding away from them, clods of moist turf flying as they ran.
“Nóheto!” he shouted and held on as the walker burst into a full run.
She had one chance: she had to catch one of the fleeing elk before they reached the meadow’s lower edge or she would lose them in the trees. From his vantage point, George saw that a wide creekbed lay across the herd’s path. It would force them to the left before they could cross it. He nudged his walker with his left heel and she obeyed, veering off her course slightly. She ran in a huge, lunging lope, her legs pushing with all the urging
a season’s hunger could provide. George kept her at an angle to the elk’s path. He saw that they were looking back at their pursuer. If they noticed she was not hot on their tails, they might turn right instead of left.
“Hó’ésta!” he commanded, and his walker obeyed with a second bellow that filled the mountain glade and sent the elk into full panic. The herd met the streambed and veered left, along the easiest course but into the walker’s path. She was ready and surged forward with even greater speed. In two strides she was close enough. One cow trailed behind the rest. The walker clamped her jaws down on the elk’s neck. George held on as his mount slowed and jerked her head back. The elk’s neck snapped and the walker released the body, looking for another kill, but the herd was in the woods where she could not follow with any speed.
“Good, good, don’t worry,” George said as he patted her heaving sides. She was thin and out of shape. This kill, however, would help to get her fit for the buffalo hunting season, where she would need to make multiple kills. He guided her back to the elk.
She waited impatiently as George set to skinning the carcass. She chuffed and stamped. George worked as quickly as he could, sensing her hunger almost as his own, but he was unskilled in the skinning of large game. She walked closer, chuffed again, and then roared at him. He whirled on her, bloody knife in hand, and bellowed back. They stared at one another, she towering over him and he, staring upward, hands now on hips, refusing to back away.
“Hámêstoo’êstse,” he ordered her and signaled with his hand. He could feel her hot breath on his head. “Hámêstoo’êstse.”
Incredibly—or so it always seemed to him whenever he had to assert his will over a fifteen-foot tall man-eater—she obeyed. She backed away three steps, settled down on the bright spring grass, and let him return to his chore.
When the carcass was skinned and the teeth—a valuable commodity among the People—had been removed, George stepped aside and let her free of his command. He had trapped enough for his needs and those of his neighbors, so the whole of the elk was hers. She ate loudly and with gusto—not a pretty sight—and when she was done, George climbed aboard and they headed home at a slow, full-bellied waddle.
The Spirit of Thunder Page 8