“GARRYOWEN” AND “CHARGE!”
While dragged the cold hours, some of the officers threw the capes
of their cavalry greatcoats over their heads, and stretched upon the
snow, slept. The general, having finished his inspection, did likewise.
But the Osages did not sleep; neither did the men of the ranks, now
collected closer in groups at their horses’ heads, to keep warm. The
stag-hounds, Maida and Blucher, shivered and whined, and curled in a
ball.
Beyond, upon the crest of the ridge, an Osage and two of the officers
were keeping keen watch upon the unconscious village below.
Ned dozed; when he awakened, stiff and shivering, the moon had set, all
was pitchy dark, except that far in the east just a tinge of grayness
signaled the approach of dawn.
Somebody near Ned stirred, and struck a match. It was the general, who
looked at his watch. The flickering light revealed his anxious face
and moustache rimmed with frost. He stood, and bending over another
sleeping form he said, low and earnest: “Moylan! Moylan!”
“Yes, sir.” And the adjutant also sat up, to yawn, and spring to his
feet.
“It’s time we were forming. Wake the officers,” continued the general.
“Is that you, trumpeter?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Ned.
“You may help us. When you come to Colonel Myers, either of you, give
him my compliments and tell him to move his command out at once and
take position.”
“Yes, sir.”
Many of the officers already were awake, waiting, peering, listening.
All around up-towered dim figures, and cautious voices spoke in
undertones. Faint jingle sounded, as the horses stirred at movement of
their guardians.
Presently into the darkness filed away Colonel Myers’ column, to take
position further along on the right.
The troopers of the center column were not yet mounted; the companies
in column of fours bided the time when the light from the east should
be stronger.
Ned, beside his horse, quivered with cold and excitement mingled. All
before was grim and silent; the ridge, snowy and blotched with brush,
lay against the sky-line to the south; beyond the ridge was the fated
village. Not even a dog barked.
Suddenly through the columns of fours ran a murmur. Into the velvet
black sky over the ridge soared slowly and stately a fire signal, of
yellow glow. Instantly through Ned’s mind surged the thought that
the village was alarmed, Major Elliot or Colonel Thompson had been
detected, and this was a flaming arrow to spread the news adown the
valley. Next would come the volleys, the shouts, and the shrieks.
“A rocket! A signal rocket!” ejaculated somebody.
“How long it hangs fire! Why doesn’t it burst?” wondered Adjutant
Moylan, impatient.
Up, and up, and up, in course majestic, it floated higher, changing
from yellow to red, and from red to blue, and from blue to lemon. The
columns watched, breathless, eye and ear set for the downward curve or
the explosion. The general spoke, in tone glad.
“It’s a star.”
“Oh!” sighed officer and men, relaxed, as passed the word.
For a star it was, now flashing white across the white and black; a
morning star beautiful beyond description, in this pure, still air. It
seemed like an omen of peace, but it brooded over a scene of war.
The light in the east had widened. From mouth to mouth the order to
advance was given; without bugle note the columns mounted and now with
creak of snow began to climb the ridge. Down from the crest came the
Osage and the two officers. The village still slept, unsuspicious.
The crest was reached. Every eye sought the village below. Its pointed
tipis could be described, as thick as young cedars, on both sides of
the curving stream. The pony herd was restless, at the approach of day
following the long, biting night.
Here upon the crest was swiftly formed the line of battle, for the
charge. Right and left into line rode the troopers, for squadron front;
the right held by Colonel West, the left by Captain Hamilton and the
Cook sharpshooters who were to fight on foot.
“Officers and men will remove their overcoats and the men their
haversacks, to be left here under guard of one man from each company,”
directed the general, tersely. “We must be free in our actions. Not a
shot is to be fired before the charge is sounded. Keep those dogs here,
too.”
So overcoats and haversacks were dropped; and stripped to their blouses
the column again waited, breathing hard.
“For—r’d—march!” The low command trickled adown the long line; and more
by sight than by hearing the line obeyed. From the crest it began to
descend; and if all was going well, from three other points three other
lines were as cautiously closing in on the doomed village.
The general led, in the center, with Adjutant Moylan beside him, Ned
behind. A few paces off to the rear of the general’s right was Colonel
West, commanding the right squadron. Captain Hamilton was on the left.
“Now, men, keep cool, wait the command, fire low and not too rapidly,”
Ned heard him caution, in clear, calm tone.
Sergeant-Major Kennedy of the non-commissioned staff was another man in
front of the line. Ned glimpsed him on the right.
Just before the center of the line, in close formation rode the
band—every man with his instrument poised, the chief musician’s cornet
at his lips, prepared to burst into “Garryowen” at first signal for
attack.
The foot of the hill was reached; the pony herd stared, and jostled
uneasily, scenting and hearing and seeing. With crackle of snow they
moved aside—and as the crackle by the cavalry mingled with the crackle
by their ponies, the village slept on, suspecting naught.
Now the timber ahead was the goal; for in the timber was the main
collection of the lodges. A few, above and below, had been pitched on
this side of the stream; but the majority were across, where the bank
was low and level.
From the pony herd to the timber fringe was further than had been
expected; as with crackle and slight jingle of sabre and bit the line
moved in at eager walk, every man peering, all too fast brightened the
landscape. The tipis glimmered white; from the apex of some curled thin
smoke; very soon would the village awake to the routine of another day.
How hard they slept—warrior and squaw and child and even dog!
“Another deserted village!” whispered the general, to Adjutant Moylan.
The adjutant nodded. The general swept a glance along his line, right
and left; he straightened more in the saddle, his right hand fell to
the butt of his revolver, projecting from holster; evidently the time
had come, and in a few moments would it be known whether this was
indeed another abandoned village. Ned raised his bugle to his lips, for
the “Charge”; but even while he was drawing breath, in readiness, smart
and quick rang from the farther side of the village a single report of
rifle! The alarm!
What a change burst upon the slumberous valley! Turned in his saddle
the general; with a word his voice smote the band into action.
“Garryowen! Give it to ’em!”
No longer was there need for concealment. Quite the opposite.
Shattering the icy air, pink with nearing dawn, into full cry blared
the doughty band. The men cheered wildly; back from the hills beyond
the fated village hastened like an echo other cheers.
“Trot—march!”
The line of squadrons, irregular as they surged through the low brush,
broke into the trot. Sabres jingled, saddles creaked; carbines were at
the “Advance,” butt on thigh, muzzle up; and the sharpshooters must run.
The trees were close before. The tipis were plain. Dark figures were
darting among them. Dogs barked furiously. From the other side of the
village pealed a rattling volley of carbines, and spread to a steady
clatter.
The general stood in his stirrups; he whirled Dandy about, and swung
high his cap above his yellow hair. Over the clamor of band and of
cheer his voice rose exultant.
“Charge!”
This was enough. Ned glued his lips to that old bugle and from puffed
cheeks forced his very soul into the wild stirring notes of the
“Charge.” On right and on left the company bugles answered. Forward
sprang the horses, awaiting no spur.
Ned was conscious that the band had dropped back through an interval of
the squadron behind; they raced on past it; but it continued to play.
Our hearts so stout have got us fame,
For soon ’tis known from whence we came;
Where’er we go they dread the name
Of Garryowen in glory.
More savagely cheered the men. Sergeant-Major Kennedy (fine soldier)
had drawn up almost even with the general and the adjutant. They rode
with revolvers held aloft, to be brought down to the deadly level. Ned
blew over and over the “Charge”—the bugle in his left hand, but his
revolver in his right.
Now they struck the first trees, bordering the stream and housing the
sprinkling of tipis on this side. Out from the tipis were bursting
men and women—the men half naked, weapons in their grasp, the women
scurrying with their frightened children. They saw the galloping line
of blue, and swerved for shelter of tree and stream. The Indian rifles
cracked venomously into the very faces of the horses. Ned thought that
he saw, with the corner of his eye, Captain Hamilton pitch sideways
from his saddle. But the Custer revolver, and the revolvers of his
companions jetted smoke, and with a roar the carbines of the troopers
drowned every noise, almost every thought save the thought of fight.
Back were swept the Indians—warriors dodging, women and children
fleeing. Driven from their white lodges, many warriors were standing
waist-deep in the frozen stream; others fought from cover of the high
bank; others from the trees and the brush. It was hot, fast work. Even
the squaws were using rifle and bow. Some fell, like the warriors, shot
down in the act of bitter defence. It could not be avoided. Ned fired
right and left, but whether he hit anybody he did not know.
Now the line was well into the first collection of tipis, and at the
stream. On the other side the battle was raging fiercely; and into the
stream plunged the reckless squadron, their line disorganized but still
resistless. Among the tipis opposite reared a single tipi of black,
which must be the tipi of the chief, old Black Kettle. But old Black
Kettle was lying stark, shot down by the rapidly riding Koom-la-Manche.
The battle had developed into a fight-at-will—into quick shooting among
the tipis and the trees, cleaning them out. The village was quickly
cleaned, but the struggle had only begun. In the village were now the
troops; the Indians were outside; their whoops and their firing waxed
ever more furious. The Osage scouts dashed hither-thither, answering
whoop with whoop. Little Beaver’s face was convulsed like a demon’s.
Sighting him, Ned almost fired upon him, but stayed his hand just in
time. In the melée ’twas hard to tell friend from foe.
Driven in by the cordon of troopers, still the trapped Cheyennes made
desperate rushes, to gain cover. On a sudden Ned’s eyes, roving rapidly
among the tipis, were halted short by a new sight: a little white girl
running! A little white girl—in fringed buckskins and in moccasins;
but yet a little white girl, her long light hair floating over her
shoulders. With a startled shout of “Look!” and with jab of spur, Ned
dashed for her.
“Mary!” he called. “Mary! Here I am! Mary!”
But how could his voice be heard, amidst the hubbub of shot and cheer
and whoop!
The fight was every man for himself, and all together to keep the
Indians from breaking away. The grove was a pandemonium. Ned had dashed
forward alone. He passed the first of the tipis in his path; and there
came Mary, fluttering bravely, dodging hard; behind, his hand even
now outstretched, his countenance scowling evilly, was a large Indian
warrior. Cut Nose? Maybe. Who he was did not matter.
Again Ned shouted, and spurred Buckie. He leaned, and thrust forward
his revolver, to pull trigger. The big Indian was a fair mark, at the
short range; but of course the bullet must not hit Mary. Now she had
stumbled on a tent peg, and was down. But Buckie was almost upon her;
so was the Indian. Strung bow, with arrow fitted, was in his hand, as
he ran; he was quick-witted, for at token of Ned on Buckie disputing
his claim his arrow was instantly at his eye, bow-string drawn to an
arc, and iron point leveled at Ned’s breast.
[Illustration: THE BIG INDIAN WAS A FAIR MARK, BUT THE BULLET MUST NOT
HIT MARY]
Ned scarcely had time to check Buckie, fling himself to one side,
and pull trigger. He was conscious that the twang of the bow and the
bark of his Colt’s sounded together. Then a terrific blow in the face
blinded him with starry red, and sent him dizzily reeling down, down.
His feet slipped from the stirrups, and he landed in a heap.
He must not stay there. His head was numb with the shock, but his
mind worked frenziedly. What was happening to Mary? What would happen
to himself? The great fear of the scalping-knife and of the tearing
by cruel hands stung him more than did the pain now increasing. He
squirmed to his knees, revolver cocked, and tried hard to see. Before
his one eye the tipis swam vaguely. Was he here alone? Where were the
other troopers? Was that light spot Mary? Was Cut Nose coming? Or did
the big Indian lie huddled upon the trampled snow at the base of the
tipi on the right, his outstretched fingers touching the little girl
figure whose face was hidden in her arms!
Fast Ned crawled across, revolver ready. The big Indian did not stir;
in one hand his bow was clutched splintered; under him the snow was
reddening. Ned threw aside his wild-beast caution.
“Mary!” he called. “Get up. Quick.”
She raised her head, and stared, startled, blue eyes wide.
“Who are you?” she quavered.
“I’m Ned. I’m brother Ned. I’ll save you.”
“Oh, Ned!” she cried, scrambling to him. “You’re hurt! You’ve got an
arrow sticking right in your head.”
Ned put up his hand, in haste to feel. His fingers met the feathered
end of an arrow, jutting from his face. An excruciating pain sped
through his head and down his back; and frightened, he fainted.