Oushata Massacre Read online

  The soft light of dawn had long since given way to the white brightness of midmorning, and already the sun promised another long, hot day. It was now late September, though, and Marcus knew from talking to the old hands that the winter would be brutal. They told him of days when all the creatures, wild and domestic, would herd together in pitiful clumps, starving and freezing to death in broad fields of white.

  Marcus held his hand up to bring the column to a halt.

  “Sergeant Flynn, give the men and horses a short blow. Lieutenant Culpepper, come with me.”

  At Flynn’s order, the soldiers dismounted and walked their horses to cool them down. Some of the soldiers stretched out on the ground for a moment while several others took the opportunity to relieve themselves.

  Cavanaugh and Culpepper climbed up the side of a hill, where Marcus used his binoculars to scan the horizon. He saw only dusty rocks, shimmering grass, and more ranges of hills under the beating sun. He started to drop the glasses when he saw one outcropping of rock that looked different from the others. He stared at it more closely.

  “John,” he said, handing the glasses over. “Am I just seeing things, or is that a burned- out wagon?”

  The officer took the glasses and looked in the direction Marcus had pointed. “It’s a wagon, all right.”

  “I don’t recall Missouri Joe saying anything about a burned-out wagon this route, do you?” “No,” John said. “I don’t.” He lowered the glasses. “Why don’t we ask Flynn?”

  “Good idea. Sergeant Flynn!” he shouted.

  Sergeant Flynn ran up the hill, puffing loudly by the time he reached the two officers. “Yes, sir, what is it?” he asked.

  “Take a look, Sergeant,” Marcus said as John handed him the glasses. “Unless Lieutenant Culpepper and I are mistaken, that’s a burned-out wagon ahead.”

  Flynn held the glasses to his eyes, adjusting the focus. “Yes, sir, I’d say that’s what it is.” “Have you seen it before?” Marcus said. “No, sir,” Flynn said. “There wasn’t nothin’ like that last time I was through here, an’ that couldn’t have been more’n a couple of months ago. That’s got to be a recent ...” Sergeant Flynn paused. He lowered the glasses slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sweet, sweet Jesus,” he said again.

  “What is it, Sergeant Flynn? What do you see?” Marcus asked.

  Flynn handed the glasses back to Marcus. “Look behind the wagon, Lieutenant. ’Bout thirty yards or so.”

  Marcus looked at the wagon again, then moved the binoculars to the back. There, lying on the ground, he saw two clumps of red. “What is it, Lieutenant?” John asked. Marcus let out a slow breath of air, then handed the glasses back to John.

  “Bodies, Mr. Culpepper,” he said. “Two women. Look for the red. That’s the color of the dresses they are wearing. At least this time the savages left the women clothed. That was more than they did at the stagecoach station.” John looked again, then drew in a short gasp as he saw them.

  “Would the lieutenant be for wantin’ a closer look?” Sergeant Flynn asked.

  “Yes, Sergeant. Let’s get the men mounted,” Marcus said.

  Flynn hurried back down the hill.

  “All right, you men, it’s back in the saddles with you, now! We’ve a bit of somethin’ that must be checked out.”

  “And would it be some action we’ll be seein’, Sergeant Flynn?”

  “Don’t ye be worryin’ none about seein’ action, trooper,” Flynn replied. “I’m thinkin’ you’ll be seein’ more’n you’ve a mind to before you’ve finished your time with the Fourth.” “Forward at a trot,” Marcus called after he’d mounted.

  The column broke into a trot. Sabers, canteens, mess kits, and rifles jangled under the irregular rhythm of the trotting horses, and dust boiled up behind them. Marcus held the trot until they were within a hundred yards of the wagon.

  “At a gallop!” Marcus called as he stood in his stirrups and drew his saber, pointing it forward. The saber wasn’t drawn as a weapon, but rather as a signaling device, for a drawn saber meant that carbines should be pulled from the saddle scabbard and held at the ready.

  Every nerve in Marcus’s body was tingling as the group of soldiers swept down on the scene. The young lieutenant was alert to every blade of grass, every rock and stone, every hill and gully. He was not about to be ambushed by Indians.

  They reached the wagon and Marcus held up his hand, calling them to a halt.

  “Line of skirmishers, front and rear!” Marcus called, and two squads of horse soldiers moved into position.

  Marcus swung down from his horse, as did Culpepper, but Marcus held up his hand, stopping him.

  “No, Lieutenant. The regulations say that when a patrol is on scout in a suspicious area, the commander and the second-in-command should never dismount at the same time. One of us has to be ready to assume mounted command.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry,” Culpepper said. There was an edge of excitement in John’s voice, but not fear. Marcus found it reassuring. If something happened, he was certain John would be ready.

  Cavanaugh walked toward the two red clumps on the ground. As he approached, he could hear the buzzing of flies. He stopped just before he reached them and braced himself for what he was about to see.

  It was a woman and a little girl, lying side by side in the grass. The only wounds visible were gunshot wounds in the head. A short distance behind the wagon, Marcus saw a man lying on his back. The man was stripped naked, and the top of his head was bashed in. He had been bald, and the Indians, as if taking out their frustration at the lack of a scalp, had opened his cranium to allow the brains to spill out onto the ground. His penis and testicles had been cut off, as had the ring finger on his left hand. There were large gashes on his thighs, his abdomen was open, and his heart had been cut out.

  Marcus didn’t have to be an old hand to figure out what had happened here. A wagon, traveling alone, had been attacked by the Indians. The man had been killed and the woman had killed the little girl and then herself. Her hand was till shaped as if around a pistol, though the Indians had taken the gun, so that her hand, stiffened by rigor mortis, resembled a grotesque claw.

  “Sergeant Flynn, assign a burial detail,” Marcus ordered as he walked back to the horses.

  “Aye, sir,” Flynn said. “O’Leary, Burgess, Keogh,” he called. The men, whether moved by a morbid curiosity or a decent inclination to bury the victims, took their shovels without protest and began digging the graves.

  Marcus looked over at O’Leary, who stood head and shoulders taller than the other men. Marcus was surprised that Pettibone had let the big man stay in the Cavalry. He thought the regimental commander would give him some type of garrison duty. But O’Leary wanted to be with the horse soldiers, and the cavalrymen wanted him with them, seeming to take some comfort in his size and strength. The stable sergeant managed to come up with an oversized horse that was stronger than average, and O’Leary had been keeping up with the others quite well during this patrol.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant,” Flynn said. “But did you notice anythin’ about the bodies?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They wasn’t swole up none by the sun.” “What are you getting at, Sergeant?” Culpepper asked.

  “I think I know,” Marcus said. “The sergeant means this didn’t happen too long ago.” “That’s right, sir. I’m thinkin’ these poor souls was kilt no longer ago than this very mornin’. Maybe a couple of hours ago at the most.”

  “Lieutenant Cavanaugh, we found something,” Shield called from near the wagon.

  Marcus walked over to Shield, and the soldier handed him a small ledger.

  “What is that?” Marcus said.

  “Evidently the little girl was keeping a diary, sir,” Shield said.

  Marcus opened it up and read aloud from the front page: “‘The Personal Account of an Exciting Trip West, by Amy Johnson, Age Twelve.’”

  “It was excitin’,
all right,” Sergeant Flynn said quietly.

  “‘July fifteenth, 1868, Sikeston, Missouri. My father has just informed us that we are leaving Missouri and going west to have a farm of our own. Mama is very sad but I am very excited,’” Marcus read. He look at the words on the page, neatly Filling the spaces between the lines, as if the young girl were working hard on her penmanship. He cleared his throat, unable to go on. He closed the book and looked back toward the three graves. By now the bodies, wrapped in what bit of canvas there was remaining from the wagon cover, had been lowered into the holes. The burial detail was covering them with dirt. When they were finished and nothing remained but three mounds, O’Leary stood up and crossed himself. Many of the others followed suit.

  “What do we do now, Lieutenant Cavanaugh?” John asked. “Are you going back?”

  “We were told to go all the way to the fork of the river, and that’s what we’re going to do,” Marcus said.

  “Sergeant Flynn, order the trumpeter to sound boots and saddles,” Lieutenant Culpepper said.

  “Yes, sir,” Flynn said.

  Fifi

  The trumpeter blew the call which summoned the soldiers to their horses, and a few minutes later the column was on the march again. They maintained a steady pace for the rest of the day and finally reached their destination just before nightfall. Sergeant Flynn assigned a detail to see to the horses, and a few others started the cooking fires for supper and coffee. Guards were posted.

  As Marcus and John sat near one of the fires and leaned back to look at the crackling flames, some of the men began singing an Irish ballad. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, but Marcus couldn’t understand the words.

  “What are they singing?” he asked Sergeant Flynn. “What is that language?”

  “Sure an’ that would be Gaelic now,” Flynn said. “’Tis a song of the old sod.”

  “Sergeant, how long ago did you come from Ireland?” Marcus asked.

  “’Twas a bit over six years ago, sir,” Flynn said. “Was took right into the Union Army, I was, an’ less’n two months after I arrived in America I found myself in the terrible Battle of Pittsburg’s Landin’. Though I reckon most is callin’ it Shiloh now.”

  “Your father was at Shiloh,” Marcus said to John.

  “On the opposite side from the good sergeant here, I’m afraid,” John said.

  “Sure’n at the time I had no side but me own,” Flynn said. “No, an’ neither did most of the laddies I knew. ’Twas hard for one from the old country to understand how folks could be killin’ their own kind. Ever’ man that died was speakin’ the same tongue, an’ there was Irish on both sides, too.”

  “But you stayed in the Army,” Marcus said. “Aye, sir, I stayed in,” Flynn said. He pointed to the others. “I’m just like them. The Army is home to us. We get our three squares an’ a place to be with our own kind. ’Tis family an’ church an’ country, all rolled into one. The Army takes care of its own, Lieutenant, and we’re its own. Just like you.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye, sir, you. I know there’s officers an’ there’s enlisted men, an’ the two can’t never be no friends or nothin’ like that, but truth to tell, Lieutenant, we’re all alike under this here blue tunic we’re wearin’. Some of us are good, an’ some are bad. Some are brave an’ some are cowards. But we’re all goin’ to wind up in Fiddler’s Green sooner or later.”

  “Fiddler’s Green?” John said, confused by the term.

  “Aye, Fiddler’s Green. Sure an’ don’t be tellin’ me you’ve no knowledge of Fiddler’s Green?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it,” John said.

  “I would’ve thought that coming from a military family you’d know all about it,” Marcus said.

  “I wasn’t around my father much during the war,” John said. “And since the war he won’t speak of anything military.”

  Marcus nodded. “Fiddler’s Green is the place where all the old cavalrymen go when they die,” Marcus explained. “It’s a cool, shaded glen where the drinking is free, and every company who ever rode to a trumpet’s call is there, waiting for that final roll call on Judgment Day.”

  John chuckled nervously. “You don’t really believe that, do you? What about you, Sergeant Flynn, do you believe it?”

  “Aye, sir, I believe it,” Flynn answered. “And why not? If a body can believe in a heaven and a hell, then wouldn’t you be thinkin’ that the Lord would allow such a place to exist if all the souls of the soldiers wanted it to?”

  “Well, when you put it like that . . .” John mused. “I suppose it is pleasant to think about, isn’t it?”

  “It has comforted many a trooper who’s had to face the idea of dying in some deserted valley all alone,” Flynn said. Flynn had been smoking a pipe, and now he knocked the bowl out into the fire. “If you’ve no objections, Lieutenant, I’ll be checkin’ the guard and then turnin’ in. We’ll be seein’ some Indians tomorra.”

  “Tomorrow? What about tonight?” John asked.

  “I don’t think so, Lieutenant,” Flynn replied. “Like as not they’ll be dancin’ all night to make their medicine. You see, they don’t like fightin’ at night. They’ll do it if they have to, but the heathens believe a body that gets kilt in the night is doomed to spend eternity in darkness.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Marcus said. “Anyway, I’m glad there’s not much chance of us being attacked tonight. With all these fresh recruits, it’s going to be rough enough if they hit us tomorrow in the daytime.”

  “Don’t be worryin’ none about the recruits,” Flynn said. “I’ve been with ’em for most of the month now, an’ I think they’ll do just fine when the time comes.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” John said honestly.

  When Flynn left to check on the guards, Marcus and John spread out their sleeping rolls. Marcus lay on his side, staring into the fire, which by now had burned so low that the flames were tiny blue flickers above the glowing red coals.

  “Marcus,” John called quietly from the dark.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think we’ll fight Indians tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You scared?”

  “No,” Marcus said, and even as he said the word he knew it was true.

  “Me, neither,” John said. “But I don’t mind admitting I sort of wish we would get attacked. I’m anxious for some action.”

  “You heard what Flynn said. There will be action enough for everybody before this is all over.”

  “Yes, I guess that’s true.” There was a long, pregnant pause, then again, John’s voice came through the dark.

  “Did you write to my sister?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” John said. “I only ask because I’m curious. It’s not that I’m wanting to play the role of matchmaker or anything.” John was quiet after that exchange, and for several moments there was no sound other than the popping of the fire, the yelp of a distant coyote, the whir of the night insects, and a guard’s cough. Then, again, came John’s quiet voice from the dark.

  “Still, if something were to happen between the two of you, it would really be great, wouldn’t it?”

  “Good night, John,” Marcus said, and turned over.

  Marcus felt certain that even if they saw Indians, they wouldn’t be attacked. Missouri Joe had told him that Indians only attacked if they were sure they had the advantage. He was leading a platoon of thirty privates, as well as three corporals, a sergeant, and another lieutenant besides himself. That was a total of thirty-six well-armed men. It would take a sizable war party to wage an attack against them.

  The next morning, he told the men that though they might encounter Indians today, he didn’t expect an attack. Nevertheless, he instructed them to check their weapons and to be sure in their minds how they would react in case the Indians did attack. Then they prepared food to be eaten in the saddle for the noon meal, and when all was ready, he signal
ed for the trumpeter to sound boots and saddles.

  “Won’t the Injuns hear the trumpet an’ know where we are and what we’re doin’, Lieutenant?” one of the men asked.

  “I’m sure they will,” Marcus said. “But would you have us sneak out of here like some whipped pups? Or leave proudly, like members of the United States Cavalry?”

  “No, we’re soldiers, by God!” one of the others shouted.

  “Well, then, let’s leave here like soldiers,” Marcus suggested.

  The company rode out in a column of twos. Within an hour every man among them knew that the Indians were indeed watching, for they could be seen as they rode single file along the crest of the hills. They were always keeping pace with the platoon and making no effort to hide themselves. But, as Marcus had figured, they made no move to attack, either. The Indians followed them to within two miles of Fort Reynolds, then they turned and rode away.

  “You played it smart, Lieutenant,” Flynn said as he watched them ride off. “There wasn’t enough of ’em in their raidin’ party, and they was afraid to take us on.”

  “D’ya hear that, boys?” one of the soldiers up front shouted back to the column. “They was afraid to take us on. They know better’n to mess with the men of the Fourth!”

  “Yeah!” someone shouted, and another came out with a “Hurrah for the Fourth!” They followed that with hurrahs for Lieutenant Cavanaugh and for Lieutenant Culpepper.

  A short time later they saw the stockade walls of Fort Reynolds.

  “Sergeant, review the column, please, and make certain everyone is deporting themselves properly,” Marcus ordered.

  “Aye, sir, I’ll see that the lads have a proper dress when we ride through the gates,” Flynn said. He peeled his horse away from the head of the column and moved along the line of soldiers, his practiced eyes picking out an unbuttoned blouse here, a mis-fastened buckle there. Several times he made corrections in uniform, equipment, or even how the trooper was sitting his horse. Then, when he was satisfied that all were ready, he galloped back to the front.

  “All ready, sir,” Flynn said, falling in alongside Culpepper.