Oushata Massacre Page 8
The sound of a single trumpet blowing charge cut through the noise, then a second joined in, then a third. The Cheyenne, realizing that they were soon to be outnumbered on the field, began to retreat. Andrews and his reserves, who were just now coming into the fray, were unable to stop them. His company and what was left of Varney’s A Company started after the fleeing Indians, but the warriors had broken up into dozens of small groups and were pulling steadily away.
The Cavalry chased them for a few minutes, then Andrews held up his hand and brought them to a halt.
“All right, men, let’s return to the scene of the battle,” he said. “We have our wounded to consider.”
Marcus and the others rode back at a trot, and when they reached the battlefield, Marcus saw that Pettibone and the other two squadrons had arrived. The wounded had been laid out on stretchers and were being attended to. Marcus swung down from his horse in front of Pettibone to report to him, but before he could say a word, Pettibone bristled in anger.
“If Andrews had hit them with everything he had, he would have been able to keep the Indians engaged until we arrived, and they wouldn’t have gotten away. Lieutenant, what order did you transmit to Captain Andrews?” “I told him you wished him to strike from the front as soon as possible, and with everything he had.”
“You did not suggest that I wanted him to hold part of his squadron back in reserve?” “No, sir, I did not,” Marcus said.
“Very well, Lieutenant. Thank you,” Pettibone said.
Marcus saw a line of canvas lumps lying nearby, with a handful of soldiers standing beside them. He knew that under the canvas lumps must be the bodies of cavalrymen, one of them, perhaps, the original rider of the horse that had fortuitously run by him on the battlefield.
“We lost nine men,” Pettibone said, noticing the direction of Marcus’s gaze. “Nine good men.” He looked over toward Captain Andrews. “All because one of my officers failed to act upon the orders I gave him,” he added in a quiet, angry voice.
At that moment Captain Forsyth approached, and Pettibone turned to him. “Captain, what’s the count on hostiles? How many did we kill?”
“Fourteen,” Captain Forsyth said. “Fourteen,” Pettibone repeated. “Fourteen today and eleven yesterday, twenty-five in all.” He nodded. “I would say then, Captain, that this has been a successful patrol. Call in the scouts. We are heading back to Fort Reynolds.”
Shortly after the regiment returned to the post, Colonel Pettibone journeyed to Fort Wallace to report the results of his days in the field, and also to suggest that there was evidence of a major Indian gathering, perhaps a prelude to a major war.
Pettibone was gone for an entire week, and in his absence, command of the 4th Cavalry Regiment and Fort Reynolds fell to Major Conklin. However, as soon as the regiment was once more in garrison, Major Conklin slipped back into his alcoholic stupor. As a result, Captain Forsyth had to assume the duties of regimental commander, and that left Marcus as the acting commander of D Company.
It was just before evening retreat, when the sentry on the east wall reported a party of soldiers approaching. Everyone on the post knew that Colonel Pettibone was back.
They were already preparing to stand the retreat ceremony of lowering the flag at sunset. It was a very special formation, observed on every Army post and on board every Naval vessel.
Forsyth hurried over to meet the colonel to see if Colonel Pettibone intended to take the formation. The men watched anxiously, for if Pettibone took it, they knew they would have to go back to the stable and saddle their horses for mounted drill. To their relief, however, Forsyth returned and informed the officers that Colonel Pettibone would not resume command until tomorrow morning.
The regiment had been able to see everything because they were in company front formation on the parade ground. The officers and sergeants of each individual company had already seen to it that their men were in proper uniform, properly equipped, and in the correct formation. Now the soldiers were standing at ease, which meant they could talk quietly among themselves. Marcus could hear in the buzz of their conversation that they were glad “Spit ’n Polish” Pettibone was not going to take the formation. Marcus pretended he didn’t hear them, for it wouldn’t do for him to imply that he shared their opinions of the commanding officer.
“Lieutenant Cavanaugh?” Forsyth called quietly. Forsyth was standing at the head of the entire regimental formation and, like the men, in the at-ease position waiting for the signal cannon to indicate the exact time to strike the colors. With Forsyth acting as the regimental commander, the three battalions were being commanded by captains, while the companies were being handled by lieutenants. Marcus, however, was the only second lieutenant who was acting as a company commander.
“Yes, sir?”
“Colonel Pettibone has asked that I extend an invitation to you and Lieutenant Culpepper to have dinner with him this evening. Mrs. Forsyth and I will be going as well.”
“I would be happy to attend, sir. I’ll pass the invitation along to Lieutenant Culpepper.”
“Very good. Stop by my house and we can go together.”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus answered.
At that moment the signal cannon boomed, and all conversation and restlessness came to a halt. Captain Forsyth came to attention, then addressed the formation.
“Commanders, bring your battalions to attention,” he ordered.
Commands and supplementary commands echoed across the quadrangle.
“Battalion!” the battalion commanders shouted.
“Company!” the company commanders called.
“Platoon!” the platoon leaders added.
“Atten-hut!”
There was a rhythmic movement of the men coming to attention.
“Present!” Forsyth called.
“Present!” the supplementary commands rang out.
“Arms!” Forsyth barked.
There was no supplementary to the command of execution, and as one, the men’s carbines and officers’ sabers were raised in salute.
The trumpeter began playing retreat. As he played, the flag was lowered. All over the entire post, soldiers who were not in formation for one reason or another turned to salute the flag as it was being lowered. All civilians on the fort, from the laundresses on Soapsuds Row, to the children and wives of the soldiers, to the sutler and his clerks, and even casual visitors, were expected to turn toward the flag and stand in respectful silence until the ceremony was over.
When the last note was but an echo, Captain Forsyth turned to face the formation.
“Dismiss the regiment,” he called.
The subordinate commanders gave the necessary order, and one minute later the entire regiment, with the exception of those who were on additional duty, were free until six a.m. the following morning. Several soldiers started immediately for the sutler, where, already, beers were being filled and lined up on the bar for the expected onslaught.
7
When he came into Marcus Cavanaugh’s quarters a little later that evening, John Culpepper was already dressed for dinner with the Colonel. Marcus was not ready and was standing over the chifforobe, pouring water into a wash basin. His shirt was off and his yellow galluses hung down to each side of his blue trousers, forming a yellow loop with the broad, yellow stripe down the sides of his legs. His pants were stuffed into high, well-polished boots. His tunic, with the empty golden shoulder boards denoting second lieutenant, was hanging over the back of a chair.
“Hello, John,” Marcus said. He stropped his straight razor against a wide, leather strap.
“I’ll be ready in a few minutes. I thought I’d shave again before dinner with the brass.”
“I stopped by the orderly room on the way over.” John held up a small, white envelope. “You have a letter here from Sally.” He was smiling broadly.
“Do I, now?” Marcus answered.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“Later.”
“No, not really. I’m just curious, that’s all,” John defended.
“You know what they say about curiosity and the cat,” Marcus teased. He lathered his face, then, drawing his jaw tight with the forefinger of his left hand, began pulling the razor through the soap. “Put it there on the table, I’ll read it tonight before I go to bed.”
“All right,” John said, clearly disappointed that Marcus wasn’t going to read it now and share it with him.
“Have a seat,” Marcus invited. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes, then we can walk over to Captain Forsyth’s house together.”
“All right,” John said. “You got a new Harper’s Weekly, too. I’ll just have a look at it, if you don’t mind.”
“Go right ahead.”
Marcus finished shaving a few minutes later and slipped into his tunic. “Let’s go,” Marcus said, reaching for his hat. “We shouldn’t keep the captain waiting.”
The two officers stepped outside and began walking along the edge of the quadrangle on their way to Captain Forsyth’s house. On top of the stockade fence they could see one of the sentries walking slowly back and forth on the rampart, a dark silhouette against the starlit night sky.
It was getting dark earlier now, and with the setting of the sun, the temperature had already dropped by several degrees. The sentries who were on their post were wearing their overcoats, and though Marcus had not thought he would need it for the walk from his quarters to Forsyth’s, he shivered in the cold night air.
“I, for one, am not looking forward to this winter,” John said, giving voice to what Marcus was thinking.
“After the heat of this summer, it might be welcome,” Marcus suggested. They walked down the line of married officers’ quarters to Captain Forsyth’s home.
Married officers’ quarters were assigned by rank, with the highest-ranking officer getting the nicest quarters and the others descending in order of precedence. There were three classifications of officers’ rank, with the highest being general grade, starting at brigadier general and up, then field grade, which was major, lieutenant colonel, and colonel, then company grade, which was second lieutenant, first lieutenant, and captain.
Since there were no general-grade officers in residence at Fort Reynolds, Lieutenant Colonel Pettibone, as the highest-ranking field-grade officer, had the nicest quarters; a large, two-story house with turrets and a wraparound porch. Major Conklin’s house had been the commandant’s quarters before the new residence was built, and it, too, was quite large and very nice. The surgeon had the next best quarters, but he would have had it regardless of his rank, for it was part of the hospital.
Other than the commander, executive officer, and surgeon, there were no field-grade officers at Fort Reynolds. That was why, when the regiment was divided into battalions, captains had to act as battalion commanders. And of all the captains, Captain Forsyth had the biggest and nicest house, by virtue of the fact that his date of rank superseded that of any other captain on the post. Even so, his quarters were little to brag about, and in any civilian town in the country, would have been considered the residence of a person of modest income.
Janet Forsyth was used to the varying degrees of comfort available to officers’ wives, however, and she took it all in stride.
“When we were posted to Fort Riley we had a fine house,” she said to the two young officers. “It was all brick, with a wonderful screened-in front porch, running water, and a lovely heating stove, rather than drafty old fireplaces.”
“Yes, but don’t forget we had also lived in a tent, Janet,” Captain Forsyth said.
Janet laughed. “Heavens, how could I ever forget that?” she replied. “No, dear, all things considered, I think we are doing just fine here, and you’ll have no complaints from me. And now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll just get my wrap, then we can walk over to the commandant’s house together.”
“Did the colonel bring back any news?” Marcus asked.
“One piece of information,” Forsyth answered. He took his pipe from a table next to the chair and stuck it in his pocket to have with him after dinner. Next, he filled a small leather tobacco pouch, closed it, then put it in his pocket as well. While he was doing that, he continued answering Marcus’s question. “We have received orders transferring Captain Andrews to Fort Wallace, by request of the commander.”
“By request of the commander?” John said in surprise. “But, Captain Forsyth, aren’t we short of officers?”
Forsyth looked at Marcus with a pleased smile on his face. Marcus knew exactly why Pettibone might have lost confidence in Andrews, and yet it was obvious by John’s question that Marcus had said nothing about it. It was the mark of a good officer that he didn’t prattle and betray confidences.
“I will share the reason with you, Lieutenant Culpepper, because you are a young officer and I feel this will be a good object lesson for you,” Forsyth said. “During the battle with Two Eagle last week, Colonel Pettibone, through Lieutenant Cavanaugh, sent a field order to Captain Andrews. Captain Andrews changed the field order.”
“And that’s why Pettibone wants to get rid of him? Just because he changed a field order?”
“Can you explain it to him, Cavanaugh?” Forsyth asked, as if he were the teacher, calling on one pupil to explain a problem to another pupil.
“When a field commander finds his units spread out over distances too far for normal communication, it is absolutely critical that he knows, at all times, where his distant units are, and what they are doing,” Marcus explained. “Without the ability to communicate, the only way he can know this is to issue orders and be able to depend, with absolute certainty, that those orders are being carried out. When Captain Andrews changed those orders, he broke the line of communication.”
“Suppose the orders are wrong?” John asked.
“As subordinate commanders in the field, we don’t have the luxury of supposing that,” Marcus replied.
“Very good, Lieutenant,” Captain Forsyth said, beaming. “For that, you may go to the head of the class.”
“Not such an honor,” John teased, “when I’m the only other one in the class.”
“Well, I’m all ready,” Mrs. Forsyth said, coming back with her coat to rejoin the men. Both lieutenants came to attention in her presence.
“How lovely you look tonight, Mrs. Forsyth,” Marcus said.
Mrs. Forsyth laughed easily, though obviously flattered by his statement. “Lieutenant, I don’t hear the Irish accent in your speech that I do in so many of the men, but I do believe you’ve a bit of the blarney in you,” she teased.
“Oh, but he’s quite right, ma’am,” John added quickly.
“You, too? Let’s go, Edward, before they run out of nice things to say,” she said to her husband.
Captain Forsyth helped her slip into her wrap, and a moment later they were walking four doors away, to the house of the post commander.
After dinner at the regimental commander’s house, the Pettibones and their guests adjourned to the parlor, where Mrs. Pettibone and Mrs. Forsyth began working on a quilt while the men talked.
Colonel Pettibone lit his pipe and that was an invitation for Captain Forsyth to do the same. Within a moment their smoke filled the room with its pungent but pleasant aroma. Though neither Marcus nor John were smoking, they were drinking wine, having carried their glasses with them from the dinner table.
“I made a rather bold proposal to General Sheridan,” Pettibone said. “And I must say, I do believe the general agrees with me. Of course, the decision to do what I propose must be made at the highest level—the very highest level—back in Washington. Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone in that nest of politicians has the courage to make such a decision. Especially as this is an election year.�
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“What was your recommendation, sir?” Forsyth asked.
“Total extermination of the Indians,” Pettibone answered easily.
Marcus looked up in quick surprise. “Sir, surely you don’t mean exterminate?”
“Oh, I’m afraid that I do mean exterminate,” Pettibone said. “That’s what you do to vermin, isn’t it? If we had a nest of rats in our food-storage room, wouldn’t we take pains to exterminate them?”
“With all due respect, sir, these aren’t rats.” “In my book, Lieutenant, they are on the same order. Surely you don’t regard them as our equal?”
Marcus remembered standing beside Dog Runner’s body and listening to Missouri Joe tell him that though Dog Runner was an evil man who had done things that made him deserve killing, he was still a man. He had taken Missouri Joe’s comment to heart, but Colonel Pettibone seemed to be disputing that basic concept.
“I regard them as men, sir. And I cannot believe you would make such a drastic proposal,” Marcus said.
“I suppose I can understand your reluctance to my plan,” Pettibone said. “For the truth is, when I first began thinking about it, I considered it too extreme. But the more I thought of it, the more I decided it was the right thing to do. And I give you this example. What about the Indian situation back in the States? Do you think there is any possibility of an Indian attack on New York, Boston, or Philadelphia?”
John laughed. “I don’t know what Marcus thinks, but I would hardly think so,” he said. “I never even saw an Indian until I came out here.”
“Precisely,” Pettibone said. “There is no Indian problem in the East. But two hundred years ago, when the white man first came to these shores, there were many Indians. It was not until those Indians were all killed or forced to move out that those great, civilized cities could spring forth. The way I see it, what was successful there will be successful everywhere. Any Indians we encounter should be killed or run out.”