“It’s like this,” said Odell, after mess. “We’re bound to go. Those
’Rapahos and Cheyennes and Kiowas and ’Paches and Sioux out yon are
ready to act mean again, and the army’ll have to calm ’em down. By
their treaty o’ Sixty-foive didn’t they promise to keep away from the
overland trails, and not camp by day or by night within ten miles
o’ any of ’em, or visit any white settlement without permission
beforehand? And what did they do? Only last summer they went on their
murtherin’ raids, time after time, and the treaty not a year old yet.
Didn’t they kill and rob right and lift through the settlements o’ the
Saline and the Solomon, jist west o’ here, drivin’ the farmers out? And
haven’t they been botherin’ the stage road up along the Smoky, and the
southwest travel by the Santy Fee Trail, and threatenin’ the railroad
advance?”
“They blame it on old Cut Nose and Pawnee Killer’s band of Dog
Soldiers,” spoke somebody. “Those Dog Soldiers weren’t there to sign
the treaty, and they say they aren’t bound by it.”
“Who are those Dog Soldiers, except the worst rascals out of all the
tribes?” grunted Sergeant Henderson, who had fought Indians before the
Sixties. “I know ’em.”
“Well, this country belonged to the Indians, first, didn’t it?” pursued
a recruit. “We’re crossing it without asking ‘by your leave,’ and we’re
settling in the midst of it and taking all we can get. I hear buffalo
are scarcer than they used to be, too, since the whites opened up the
country. That’s what the Indians depend on for a living—the buffalo.”
“Ah, now, mebbe you’re right, and I think myself the Injuns are treated
a bit shabbily, at times,” responded Odell. “There are rascals on both
sides. But what would ye do? Save back all this western country jist
for the Injun to hunt on? Wan Injun needs about ten square mile o’
territory, and he laves it the same as he found it. The white man takes
a half square mile—yes, and much less—and he stays with it and improves
it; and twinty white men and their families can live in the space
required by wan Injun jist for huntin’ whilst the women do the work.”
“As long as there’s a trail unfenced, when the grass greens in the
spring and the willow and cottonwood buds swell, the Injun—and
specially the young Injun—will grow uneasy,” quoth Sergeant Henderson.
“Spring is war time, summer is visiting time, fall is hunt time. In
winter the Injuns are glad to have the Government take care of ’em.
We’re pushing two railroads through, whites are getting thicker,
Injuns are being bossed by the Government and cheated by traders and
crowded by settlers, and they see nothin’ for ’em but to clean the
country out—if they can.”
Wild Bill had ridden at canter into the parade ground, and across to
headquarters. At the veranda of the general’s house he pulled short,
and swung to ground, as if he had been sent for. Then he entered.
When he came out, presently, he was riding away in a great hurry, when
the sergeant hailed him, passing.
“What’s the news, Bill?”
“Sharpen your sabres,” spoke Wild Bill, briefly, without drawing rein.
He rode on, and turned into the stage road which led west, up the Smoky
Hill River. Evidently he was carrying dispatches to Forts Harker and
Hays, the new Seventh Cavalry posts that were guarding the further
advance of the Kansas Pacific.
Wild Bill had spoken to the point, as always. He wasted no words.
Before the afternoon drill, there had spread through the post like
wildfire the word that the Seventh Cavalry must be prepared to take the
field, equipped for service, within a fortnight.
This was great news. Old Fort Riley seethed with it. Now in these the
days of early March there was a sudden increase of mounted drills
long and hard; an effort at target practice with the stubby Spencer
repeating carbines—proving that most of the men shot no better than
they rode; shoeing of horses and tinkering of wagons at the fort
smithy; and grinding of sabers on the post grind-stones.
Passing a grind-stone Ned noticed private Malloy busily engaged in
applying the edge of an unusually long sabre. Malloy was the “striker”
or officer’s handy-man on duty at the general’s house. He looked up at
Ned, and, wiping the perspiration from his brow, grinned. So did the
soldier who was turning for him.
“Do you recognize the big toad-sticker?” queried Malloy.
Ned doubtfully shook his head. Malloy obligingly handed it to him.
“Look at it an’ heft it. It’s the general’s. Thought mebbe you’d seen
it hanging on his wall. ’Tis one captured in the War; an’ the noise of
the grinding sort o’ reminded him he wanted it whetted up. ‘Malloy,’
said he, ‘polish that big scalping knife o’ mine along with the rest of
’em.’”
“Can you swing it?” bantered the other soldier.
Ned lifted the sabre and examined it. It was as long as he was tall;
was far longer and heavier than regulation. On the bright blade were
letters engraved:
Do not draw me without cause;
Do not sheathe me without honor.
What a sword! No, Ned could not swing it. He handed it back.
“That’s a real Damascus steel, they say,” informed Malloy’s helper.
“Is the general going to take it on the march?” asked Ned, expectantly.
“No, I reckon not,” answered Malloy; “but he would if he wanted to,
I’ll wager—just as he wears his hair long an’ his tie red. He’s a great
man for having his own way, is old Jack.”
“Headstrong, you might call him,” added the other man. “Like chasin’ a
buffalo, alone and ’way off from his command, an’ not knowin’ but that
Injuns are right over the next ridge.”
The yellow hair and quick voice of the general were everywhere, as
with prompt eyes and mind he oversaw the post preparations. For now
was it known that this was to be an important march, wherever it led;
with infantry and artillery as well as cavalry, and with Major-General
Winfield Scott Hancock himself accompanying. The purpose, it seemed,
was to have a talk with the Indians, and to show them that the United
States was ready with soldiers to protect the white people on the
plains.
General Hancock was the commander of the Military Department of the
Missouri. His headquarters were Fort Leavenworth, on the Missouri River
at the eastern border of Kansas. From Fort Leavenworth were coming the
artillery and most of the infantry. In all there would be about 1400
men, thought Odell.
The expedition gave to Fort Riley a war-like appearance. First the
scouts began to collect. Wild Bill was there anyway; and came in, among
others, a young scout named Cody—Bill Cody. He had been at Riley, off
and on, before. With his flowing dark hair, his wide black eyes, his
silky moustache and goatee and his buckskins and weapons, he looked
indeed entitled to considerable respect.
“Do you know that man?” had asked Odell, of Ned.
“No.”
“He’s a good wan. He’s Pony Express Bill. That’s what they used to call
him. Was the youngest pony express rider on the line. Faith, he rode
when he wasn’t any older than you, my lad, carryin’ the mail across
the plains. Now he ranks up with Wild Bill and the rist o’ the scouts.
And they do say he’s the best buffalo hunter, white or red, west o’
Leavenworth.”
There also was a squat little Mexican, swart and pock-marked and very
homely, whom everybody styled Romeo because his name was Romero. And at
the last sauntered in a big-nosed bluish-eyed man, with much brick-red
hair and whiskers mingling, whose title was California Joe.
California Joe never was seen without his greasy black slouch hat
on his abundant hair, and his short, black briar pipe between his
whiskered lips. Baggy trousers were tucked deep into dusty boots, and
a venerable cavalry overcoat was draped over several layers of other
garments. He rode a large mule, which he declared beat a horse “all
hollow.” As he lounged about, he was ready to talk to anybody. By his
numerous quaint remarks he plainly was an odd character.
The arrival of the troops from Fort Leavenworth brought a squad of
Delaware Indians, as more scouts. They were from their reservation
near to Fort Leavenworth. The chief was Fall Leaf, a well-built,
fierce-looking old man, war chief of the Delaware tribe, and a great
fighter. Of the train he grunted: “Heap good! Went whiz! Beat buffalo
and pony.” Of the telegraph he said: “No understand, but heap good.
Heap swift! Like arrow or bullet between wide places; but heap better.”
His nephew General Jackson was another member of the squad. General
Jackson was slender and small, but brave.
The troops who arrived by train from Fort Leavenworth were one battery
of light artillery, and six companies of the Thirty-seventh Infantry,
with a company of engineers, for laying bridges. They pitched their
tents outside the post.
At the same time arrived also General Winfield Scott Hancock and his
staff, including General Smith. General Hancock was the department
commander in the field; but General Smith, as colonel of the Seventh
Cavalry, commanded the march. A round-faced, heavy moustached,
energetic man proved to be General Smith, who would fall to and do
things himself in order to have them done right. He had made a great
reputation in the late war.
All of the officers were glad to shake hands with General Custer, the
youngest of the whole bevy except a few “tads” fresh from the Academy
or just appointed from the civil life.
But among the most interesting of the new-comers was a little Indian
boy who had been captured from the Cheyennes when, on Sand Creek,
at Thanksgiving time, 1864, the Colorado volunteers attacked Black
Kettle’s village of Cheyennes and Arapahos and shattered it. The
Cheyennes and Arapahos claimed that the attack had been a massacre; and
they had demanded that the whites return the little boy and his sister
to them. Now General Hancock had brought the little boy along, to
return him and thus show the Indians that the heart of the Great White
Father at Washington was good toward them. The little boy had been
taken care of in the East and spoke English, and except for his color
was like any white boy.
“Sure, ’tis foolishness,” declared Odell, at mess. “The Injuns will
only think the Government be afraid of ’em, and they’ll take the lad
and do nothin’ in return. What of all the white captives they hold?
What o’ Ned’s sister? Do ye see ’em returnin’ her?”
“Well, but wasn’t that Sand Creek fight a big mistake on the part of
the soldiers?” asked the talkative recruit—who had been a lawyer before
he enlisted. “As I understand, the charge was made on a friendly
village that had hoisted the United States flag for protection.”
“This whole Injun question is a problem, anyhow,” quoth Odell. “If you
treat ’em as you’d treat white men, they don’t understand, because
they live by different rules. And if you treat ’em as red men, and
fight fire with fire, then you have to do things that a white man ought
not to do. At Sand Creek the white men took revenge jist as red men
take revenge; and while it wasn’t exactly a civilized way to foight,
nivertheless it gave the settlers peace for a time, b’gorry.”
Hearing this discussion gave Ned a great thought. What if General
Custer would have the little Indian boy traded for Ned’s sister? What
if! Perhaps that was the plan. But before he ventured to ask the
general, he found out.
General Hancock was a fine large, very military man, with grayish
mustache and short goatee; and he looked and acted as if he were indeed
the one to behave so gallantly, as he did, in the Mexican War and at
the battle of Chancellorsville in the Civil War. Ned had paused, to
watch him and General Custer walking briskly and talking together, as
they crossed the parade-ground. General Custer suddenly caught sight of
Ned, standing, and with impulsive gesture waved him forward.
Ned squared his shoulders, in military step paced over, and
intercepting the two officers put his heels together, pulled in his
chin and his stomach, and saluted. They acknowledged the salute—General
Hancock eyeing him keenly. Ned was glad to feel that he was neat and
soldierly. So he waited.
“This is the lad whose sister is held by the Cheyennes,” was saying
General Custer, “and concerning whom I addressed you the communication
suggesting that the Government trade the Cheyenne boy for her.”
“I see,” replied General Hancock. “The War Department, as I was obliged
to inform you, decided that such a course was unwise considering that
the treaty agreement to return the boy was made without any proviso of
such a nature. I’m sorry, my lad,” he proffered to Ned. “But we’ll try
to get back your sister, just as soon as we can.”
Ned’s heart had leaped, only to fall again. He could not speak. General
Custer must have read his disappointment, for he said, quickly:
“I understand you can blow the bugle pretty well now, boy.”
“Yes, sir. I think so, sir.”
“Know all the calls; every one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Garryowen?” The Custer blue eyes danced.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” continued General Custer, “you may report at post headquarters
as headquarters bugler. But I require a _good_ one. Remember that.”
“Yes, sir. I will, sir,” stammered Ned. His heart again thumped, his
joy choked him, he knew that he was like a beet.
A bugler, selected in turn from the company buglers, always was on
duty at headquarters as the orderly bugler; but Ned had been omitted,
until he knew the calls perfectly. Now at last he was chosen; he was
entitled to take his bedding to the orderly’s room at the headquarters
building; he would stay there and sleep there, and would be near the
general constantly, to blow calls for the post and to go on errands
wherever the general or the adjutant might send him—or where Mrs.
Custer, either, might want to send him. Some of the buglers liked this
duty; some didn’t, though all liked a chance at the kitchen and Eliza’s
cooking! But for Ned it wasn’t the cooking, especially: it was being
there with General Custer.
Another company of the Thirty-seventh Infantry arrived, and also
several companies of the Thirty-eighth Infantry, a colored regiment.
They were a strange variety of soldiers; many of them right from
plantations down south, and not yet disciplined to army life. They were
to garrison the post while the Seventh Cavalry was absent!
Now at the close of March the expedition was ready to start. Cartridge
boxes and belts were full, clothing repaired, horses shod, and
according to the cavalry the infantrymen (who were called “doughboys”)
all had their shoes resoled. Ned well knew that the general was
outfitted better than anybody; for at headquarters he had seen Mrs.
Custer flying busily about the house, gathering things to stow in the
stout blue mess-chest bearing the letters “G. A. C., 7th Cav., U. S. A.”
In the little room which was his as orderly bugler or trumpeter Ned
awoke early, full of eagerness. This was the day of the start, and he
must do the starting. According to the trumpeter orders, written by
the adjutant and tacked on the wall, and to the clock, “First Call”
was not due for twenty minutes. So he must wait, until at the exact
second he issued forth into the pink dawn, before the office, as it
was called. Standing erect and soldierly at the foot of the steps,
facing in all directions, he blew on his battered brass bugle from the
quartermaster’s supplies the warning “First Call.”
In due time the company buglers began to gather, around the flag-pole;
until as the sun rose it was time for the reveille. At word from the
sergeant of the guard (who yawned) all put bugles to lips and sounded
the initial note. “Boom!” belched the morning gun; up to the top of
the pole sped the flag, floating out gloriously; and through the
bright morning air pealed, from the buglers beneath it, the rollicking
reveille:
I can’t get ’em up, I can’t get ’em up, I can’t get ’em up this
morning,
I can’t get ’em up, I can’t get ’em up, I can’t get ’em up at all;
The corp’ral’s worse than the private, the sergeant’s worse than the
corp’ral,
The lieutenant’s worse than the sergeant, and the captain’s worse
than them all.
At the same moment, from the infantry and artillery camp also pealed
its reveille.
There was a brief pause; and next must be sounded the “Assembly.” Out
from the barracks poured the men, buttoning coats and clapping on caps,
to form their companies. The sergeants called the roll, and reported on
the “present, absent, or accounted for.”
Smokes were wafting upward from the chimneys of company cooks, and of
wives and servants in officers’ row, and soon Ned, now alone, from the
parade-ground must sound “Mess”:
Soup-y, soup-y, soup-y, not a single bean;
Coff-ee, coff-ee, coff-ee, and not a bit of cream;
Pork-y, pork-y, porky, and not a blamed streak o’ lean!
So, too, he sounded “Stables”:
Come off to the stable all ye who are able,
And give your horses some oats and some corn;
For if you don’t do it your colonel will know it,
And then you will rue it, as sure as you’re born.
And “Sick Call”:
Go get your pills, go get your pills;
Go get your pills, go get your pills;
Go get your pills, go get your pills;
Go get your pi-lls. Go get your pills.
However, there were few sick men, on this day when the Seventh Cavalry
was to march.
The remainder of the garrison calls, such as guard-mount and fatigue,
were assigned to the colored infantry bugler, for the infantry now
succeeded to the routine at old Fort Riley. The cavalry had something
better.
While on an errand to the general’s house, Ned heard the preparations
there. Before the steps of the veranda stood the General’s horse Phil
Sheridan. Within, the general was saying good-by to Mrs. Custer. Ned
could hear him assuring the “old lady” (which was Mrs. Custer’s pet
title, aside from Libbie) that it was to be a short campaign; that the
Indians would be afraid to make trouble, and that he would be back very
soon.
“Sho’ he will, Miss Libbie; he’ll be back ’foh we know it,” comforted
Eliza. “Anyway, this campaignin’ on the plains ain’t wuss’n campaignin’
in Virginny. You know that, don’t you?”
Out came the general, clanking in his spurs and sabre. Not now was he
wearing his buckskin coat; he was clad in the full fatigue uniform of
a lieutenant-colonel of cavalry. He still wore his black slouch hat,
with gold cord and tassel. His dogs raced before him, overjoyed at the
prospect of a gallop. Evidently they were to go.
From headquarters issued Adjutant Moylan, ready to mount. Equipped
with his own sabre and revolver, like any trumpeter, Ned stiffened to
attention.
“Sound boots and saddles,” ordered the adjutant.
Ned put to his lips his bugle, and blew loud and clear the spirited bar
of “Boots and Saddles.” Hither and thither scurried the soldiers, for
the stables, to saddle and bridle; and it looked as if some of them had
already done so. The teamsters clapped the final harness on their mules
and led them at a trot for the traces.
General Custer, blue-eyed, golden-locked, bronze-faced, slender but
wiry, stood on the veranda of his house, tugging at his gauntlets as
he watched the bustle. Mrs. Custer stole out, with the pretty Diana
(suspiciously red-eyed, Ned imagined) and pressed beside him. He placed
his arm about her. From the door behind peered the black face, turbaned
with a red bandanna, of Eliza.
“To horse,” bade the adjutant, of Ned.
Ned sounded “To Horse.” Out from the stables jostled the troopers,
leading their horses to form the company lines.
The general stooped hastily and kissed Mrs. Custer. Down the steps
he clanked, his slouch hat at a cavalier angle, his officer’s cloak,
yellow lined, floating and beneath it showing his crimson tie. He took
the reins from the negro boy and vaulted upon Phil Sheridan.
Adjutant Moylan mounted, and Ned swung aboard his special horse
Buckie, at a trot to follow across the parade-ground.
The companies were formed and waiting, each man at the head of his
horse. The infantry drums and bugles also had been sounding; all the
tents had been struck, and the lines of blue and white were standing at
a carry, in a “right dress.”
“Prepare to mount!” shouted General Custer, drawing sabre.
“Prepare to mount!” repeated the company commanders.
Every trooper turned, put left boot into stirrup, and hand upon mane
and saddle, waited.
“Mount!”
With one motion the blue blouses upheaved, and were in the saddle. A
few horses plunged, but they were held in line. The wagon teamsters
were in their seats, their lines taut, their whips poised. On the steps
or porches of all the officers’ quarters women were waving and trying
to smile (and some were succeeding and some were not); outside the post
could be heard the commands of the infantry and artillery officers.
“Sound the advance,” bade the general, curtly.
As Ned did so, he was answered by the bugles of the infantry, in
similar call.
“Fours right—march!” The new band rode bravely to the front. Whirling
his horse, the general, followed by his bugler, trotted briskly to
take the lead. All the companies, forming fours, fell in one behind
another, the swallow-tail cavalry guidons of white and red fluttering
gaily in the breeze.
The new band blared in a tune. No “Garryowen” this time, but “The Girl
I Left Behind Me.”
The hour was sad I left the maid,
A ling’ring farewell taking;
Her sighs and tears my steps delayed—
I thought her heart was breaking.
In hurried words her name I blessed,
I breathed the vows that bind me,
And to my heart in anguish pressed
The girl I left behind me.
Then to the east we bore away,
To win a name in story,
And there, where dawns the sun of day,
There dawned our sun of glory;
Both blazed in noon on Alna’s height,
When in the post assigned me
I shared the glory of that fight,
Sweet girl I left behind me.