0525427368 (24 page)

Trying to figure out this plan. We going to give Winona to her uncle and then take back Angel Neale. What happens to Winona after? They think she’s going to don Sioux skirts and speak Sioux again? Not sure folks are thinking about Winona. I know they are not. Starling Carlton just loves his blessed major and will effect all in his power to succour him. Of course he will. Major the fairest man I ever met but he been filleted out with the knife of grief. Men I knew well in former days still in the company and it’s so strange to be clad in blue again. Little Sarjohn he rides out ahead and bobs about on his mule like he know what he’s doing. Those familiar hills now dressed in the lace and shawls of winter. Even in distress the land seems to solace you. Guess the black truth is it crosses through our hearts.

Starling Carlton leads my old company and I got my corporal work to do. There’s a strange yellow-faced fella called Captain Sowell who leads Company A. Looks like his cheeks were shaved from wood and he got Dundrearies just like Trooper
Watchorn years ago. Man’s got a thorn bush each side of his nose you’d say. Starling Carlton ain’t inclined to speak to me so I don’t ask him nothing. I doubt if he trusts me but I ain’t planning nothing but to keep Winona safe. Now she’s ordered up beside the major who’s mounted on his fine black mare. When you see a horse like that you know you been riding a sorry nag all through Nebraska and Wyoming. Her coat gleams in the silvery glamour of the snow-light. It’s a long time since I rode with the major and all the old medicine of loyalty floods into my heart. Suddenly I feel sorely four or five sorrows. The loss of old comrades in times past. The dead in battles. The murder of Mrs Neale, a gentle woman. Somewhere in the back of all that are other matters. The shady ghosts of my family long gone by in Sligo. Sligo. A word I hardly even sounded in private thought in a decade of years. The filthied dress of my mother floats behind my eyes. My sister’s pinafore ruined by Death. The thin cold faces. My father lengthwise like a smear of yellow butter. A stain. His tall black hat as crushed as a squeezebox. Sometimes you know you ain’t a clever man. But likewise sometimes the fog of usual thoughts clears off in a sudden breeze of sense and you see things clear a moment like a clearing country. We blunder through and call it wisdom but it ain’t. They say we be Christians and suchlike but we ain’t. They say we are creatures raised by God above the animals but any man that has lived knows that’s damned lies. We are going forth that day to call Caught-His-Horse-First a murderer in silent judgement. But it was us killed his wife and his child. The first Winona. And many more that were kin to him. Our own Winona was wrested from these
plains. We took her like she were our natural daughter. But she ain’t. What is she now? Plucked all two ways and there she is dressed as a drummer boy in the cavalry of the United States and easily laughing. She pleased to her soul to be answering the hurt of the major because the major’s wife once showed her kindness. Winona, the queen of this o’erwhelming country. God damn it but a corporal best not weep. And John Cole lying in our bed at home and wondering what I’m doing. Ain’t I treasoned him and gone back on my true word? The world ain’t all just grasping and doing. It’s thinking too. But I ain’t possessing the brain to think it all clear. A snowfall made mostly of dark gaps and wind starts to fall on my black folly. The companies ride on with a German jackanapes in front. But no man such a jackanapes as me.

Caught-His-Horse-First don’t straight off show his face. His boys are waiting at the back of a deep glen. Trees on slopes so steep you wonder how could they manage there. Dark evergreens rushing up towards the sky as if a kinda fixed fire. A cold crowd of silver birches at the base like maidens at a wedding. The Sioux seem changed to me. Ain’t got no feathers in their get-ups and their hair looks cut by barbers. They got every strange scrap of whiteman’s clothes you ever saw for sale. Rags mostly. Here and there the breastplates made of thin steel wire. These Sioux haven’t helped us in the war and no one favours them much now. These recent dealings ain’t put a polish on nothing. But the major sitting up straight in his saddle, peering about like he might see his daughter somewhere. A strange atmosphere over us, Indian and soldier. Like a performance
about to begin in Mr Noone’s hall. Soldiers glancing quickly at each other and no one likes the glistening and plentiful arms the Indians bear. Daggers and pistols too. There’s a kinda look to them like we being met by tramps. No-good people. Their fathers owned everything here and we was never heard of. Now a hundred thousand Irish roam this land and Chinese fleeing from their cruel emperors and Dutch and Germans and boys born east. Poured in across the trails like a herd without an end. Every face before us look like it were slapped. Slapped and slapped again. Dark faces squinting out from under cheap hats. Beggars really. Ruined men. That’s what I am thinking. Then up from the copsewood yonder rides Caught-His-Horse-First. I ain’t seen him for many years. He got his war bonnet on and all his clothes is good. Musta made a special effort for the day. His face looks proud and cross as Jesus in the Temple. Riding a fine and lovely stallion and no bother to keep it reined. Looks like Sarjohn speaks the Sioux. Talking for a bit. Major just sits his horse now seeming placid and still like he was inspecting troops on the parade ground. I can only see the back of his head. His uniform too is brushed and good. His hatbrim’s been furled nice by his subaltern. Probably slept on his uniform last night to crease it. Even when the line of Indians shivers back and opens a little gap and the major’s child is led through the major doesn’t stir. It’s a nest of wasps and he ain’t going to kick it.

Sarjohn comes back for Winona and Starling Carlton goes on up with her and in the little strip of wintry grass between the exchange is made. Caught-His-Horse-First swings round his horse and kicks its withers with his bare heels. Like a Confederate
soldier he ain’t got no boots. Winona goes trotting after. The Indians flow away in a sudden unity as if the air were a pushing flood. Here’s Angel Neale. Can’t be more than eight or nine. The fiery woods and a little girl. She’s dressed as a young Sioux squaw. The major spurs forward and leans down to her small mount. Gathers her up like a loose parcel and swings her round behind him. Any man that wants to can hear her sobs. Then we turn as a body and head back.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

T
HERE
’
S
OLD
SORROW
in your blood like second nature and new sorrow that maddens the halls of sense. Causes an uproar there. I’m leaving Winona. I can never see John Cole again, I’m thinking. How would I find words to tell the story? A man that only got noughts to count can’t get
1
for an answer. That night our journey back’s half done and the officers’ tent is pitched and soon it’s full of lamplight. The plains stretch black and cold about and the pickets sing their songs in low voices as if hushed by the soaring night of blotted and unblotted stars. The companies bed down and seem content as human men. A great thing’s been done, the rescue of their major’s heart. I can see the major scribbling on maps with his daughter at his side. There’s a glass of wine on his campaign table and the light slips through it so it looks like a hovering jewel. Now and then he looks at her. I am glad to witness that. But in my head there’s riots.

Two days back in the fort and the major sended his daughter the hundred miles south to the new railroad town. She got a young lieutenant and two privates for an escort. They’re going to bring her all the route to Boston so she can be in the protection of her mother’s people. It’s rumour now that the major
will resign his commission and return to his wardrobe of civvies. Guess he’s wearied of the desecrated vegetables. What in the Sam Hill I’m going to do I can’t tell. I send a telegraph message with the young lieutenant for dispatching to John Cole.
Held Up Stop More Soon Stop Winona Safe Stop.
That was three lies for seventy-five cents.

Starling Carlton a high-up officer so it ain’t as easy to snag him now. There’s a lad called Poulson is a corporal like me from Jackson. He were one of them scalawags they talk about, fought for the Union. Nice boy with a bush of red hair on top so that his cap has trouble perching. Not an elegant boy but a decent one. Captain Silas Sowell has an easy way with subalterns. He’s a pious man and don’t like swearing so it ain’t all plain sailing talking to him. Just trying to see my path ahead. Feel my way. Major Neale got a burning face and the troopers say he often shot in the head from whisky. Guess he’s looking for his medicine there. He got his daughter but he still got two graves that assault his will. Fort’s much bigger these times. Wives and camp whores, broke-down Indians abound. Thousands of horses and the lads to tend them. Crows still working as army wolves and they’re top-notch boys. That night I try drinking in their camp because I want to know if they know something. They’re good easy men. All they do all night is make fancy jokes. Big streeling long-tailed jokes. Half in Crow and half in English. Can’t follow much of it. But they don’t know nothing about Winona.

A day later and I’m stumbling ’bout like this and there’s something happening. Whole four regiments being raised and readied. Right from reveille every man is mustered. All the companies
drawn up and the horses stamping and snorting. The major is to lead this force because the colonel’s away in San Francisco. That’s what Poulson says. But where we going? I say. No one knows, he says, we’re to get orders later. Just one regiment left to hold the fort. Otherwise we all pour out the gates. Line after line of cavalry men. A blue snake an eighth of a mile long. We got five new Gatling guns and a whole battery of Napoleon twelve-pounders. But it’s no weather for campaigning. The ground is hard and bare and even out on the plains there won’t be grass. Must be a quick sortie out and then return. No one seems to know. Worse still that ratlike German Henry Sarjohn’s with us. He don’t look happy and he’s riding with downcast eyes. Poulson says the major don’t like him and I’d say even his mother found it hard. We’re heading exactly the same trail was took before and I don’t know to be pleased or a-feared. Looks like we’re heading back to the pines and the birch trees in that arroyo where we was before. Night falls but the major pushes us on. Under cold starlight we pursue our way. I’m trying to get sense from Poulson but he knows nothing. I got to try Starling again. I rides up to him. Hey, Starling, where we headed? He don’t say a word. Just looks ahead though he can’t help a tiny glance from flickering towards me. A mealy-mouthed moon half rises and dimly burns. Like a lamp going low on oil. Just after the first fingers of sunrise we come to the same V-shaped valley. A pass at the top lets us through. Beyond is a slope of grey stone and speckled snow. A creek in the middle distance tries to pick up the light of the sun. Caught-His-Horse-First’s tent village lies all below. What in the name of the suffering God?

Caught-His-Horse-First must be readying for his treaty because he’s flying the Yankee flag. It’s stuck up on top of the biggest teepee right in the centre of the village. Big coiling and uncoiling movement from our men. Batteries set up and the Gatling guns placed swiftly. We’re not two hundred yards away and if they fire a gun they can’t miss for tarnation. Winona, Winona! Guessing she’s down there in that damn tent. The major has issued orders and now the captains take hold of their companies and everyone getting into place. You see the Indians moving about and the early morning fires in the care of the squaws. Some of them standing up now and looking at us across the gap. Seem mighty surprised as I am myself. Must be about five hundred souls to judge by the spread of wickiups and teepees. The creek behind softly smoking with mist. Then the ground rising to the fringes of a forest and the dark green acres then and then heaped up high the black mountains and the haircuts of snow on top. There’s a silence now spread across our troops and a silence across the village and across the forest and across the mountains. All creation is puzzled and don’t know to say a thing. Now Poulson is at my side and he gives me a glance. Here’s Major Neale riding along the line. To every section of fifty men he shouting his orders. As he speaks there’s about twenty braves running up from the village. They ain’t even carrying arms. Just running towards us. Caught-His-Horse-First at the front. He’s took down his flag and is running with it. He’s waving it like it could be a word. Now Major Neale reaches our section. You’re to fall on them, men, and leave nothing alive. Not a blade of grass standing. Kill them all. These ain’t words that the major knows.
Now Captain Sowell rides over and takes issue with his superior. That’s a terrible sight for a soldier. Battle is an ill without officers shouting too. All the eyes of the men, four thousand or so, look on with shock. Caught-His-Horse-First gets to the fringe of the army. He’s shouting too, and the major’s shouting at Captain Sowell. We can’t hear what the captain’s saying back.