Blood Riders (7 page)

“But I will be,” he said. “I will be.”

Chapter Ten

C
hee sat on the bunk in his sleeping quarters. He had grabbed some beef jerky from the galley, and Dog sat on his haunches, gratefully chewing away at the hard scraps of meat. His cabin on the train held a bed, a small desk along the wall, and a dresser at the opposite end with a washbasin atop it. Hooks on the walls held several changes of uniform and other suits of clothes, each complete with a hat and different set of boots. Chee had never had much beyond his uniform in the way of clothing, so he didn’t want to assume the clothes were for him. But the major was a bigger man. Six feet four at least, and none of these looked his size. It was as if everything had been tailored for Chee. How could Pinkerton have gotten so much clothing for him so quickly?

Chee rose and sat at the desk, placed the silver coin Van Helsing had given him on top, and he stared hard at it. Deathwalkers. What had he gotten himself into? He had heard the major’s story not long after he’d arrived at Leavenworth. Hollister had already been in prison for more than two years by then. The army ran on gossip and even before he’d been sentenced, Chee heard about an officer out in Montana or Wyoming, no one was exactly sure, who claimed that “strange creatures” had wiped out his platoon.

Chee had put no stock in the rumor. Alcoholism was rampant in the army and he assumed it was just another drunk white man who had run into a passel of angry Sioux or Crow and gotten what he deserved for being drunk on duty. And who’d then made up some wild story in order to cover his ass.

Then Chee had met Hollister in prison. He didn’t seem like a drunk. As far as Chee knew, Hollister stayed out of the black market, and there had been plenty of opportunities for such activity in a place as rampant with corruption as Leavenworth. After watching him around the yard for a while, Chee realized no one bothered Hollister—not even the bullies like McAfee. Whether it was because of Hollister’s no-nonsense demeanor, or because there was a fear he might be crazy and thus a little dangerous. Then Hollister had intervened on his behalf with McAfee’s thugs at the well. There were three of them down in the pit with Hollister when it had started. Yet a single look from the major had kept them all there instead of coming to McAfee’s aid. Why? He would need to think about this.

He kept the silver coin in its spot on the desk, like a specimen of something he might be afraid to touch. When Van Helsing had mentioned the Order of Saint Ignatius, Chee had nearly jumped. He had often heard his grandmother speak of the Saint. She claimed he had cursed all Deathwalkers, in the years shortly after Christ died on the cross. Before Ignatius died at the hands of Deathwalkers, he brought down the righteous fury of God upon them. From that point on, the souls of the Deathwalkers were damned and they faded away to the darkness of human history. Chee had thought it was just a story. A fable, meant to scare people and keep little mixed-breed children like him on the straight and narrow.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cloth bag. It held a few things he had kept hidden inside his mattress in his cell, and it was all he’d taken with him when Major Hollister came to get him from the box. He loosened the string on the bag and poured the contents out on the desk: a small French coin with a length of twine running through it, a pair of tiny bones from the foot of a badger, a dried garlic clove, and a small plant with a dried, blue flower on top of it.

Chee removed his boot and sock and tied the coin around his ankle. A trick his grandmother had taught him. It would keep evil spirits from sneaking up on him and entering his body from the ground. He took a new white handkerchief he’d purchased in town and folded it into a small square on the desk. He placed the bones, the garlic, and the dried wolfsbane in the center of the handkerchief, and then folded the corners up one at a time and placed the small bundle back in the cloth bag, which he tied around his neck.

He prayed to the north wind in Creek, the language of his father’s mother. The north wind kept evil away. He patted the medicine bundle over his chest. It felt reassuring. With Cajun, Chinese, Creek, and Negro grandparents, Chee’s spiritual upbringing had been a crazy quilt of customs, rituals, and beliefs. He took his comfort from whatever branch of the family tree was most . . . comforting. At the time at least.

Dog had finished his meal and now sat staring expectantly at Chee.

“I know, boy,” he said quietly. He tried again to wrap his mind around what he had seen today. Everything had changed so rapidly. The major getting him sprung from Leavenworth, the way he’d treated Chee in the restaurant like an equal. The curious little doctor fellow and, of course Pinkerton. He had heard of Pinkerton and his men, they were well known by reputation, even on the plains. But they mostly went after bank and train robbers. What was Allan Pinkerton himself doing wrapped up in something like this?

Chee removed his other boot and stretched out on the bunk. He was unprepared when Dog jumped up on the bed, landing on his chest, the air rushing from his lungs.

“All right, boy,” Chee grumbled, sliding over and turning on his side to give Dog more room. The great beast licked his face once and Chee couldn’t help but laugh. He thought of Van Helsing, Pinkerton, and Hollister still wandering about the train car, and wondered again why white people were so strange before he drifted off to sleep, Dog already snoring softly.

Chapter Eleven

H
ollister felt the train slowly start moving. He lay on his bunk in the darkness, the sensation making him feel as if he needed to put his foot on the floor to keep the world still. After four years of staring at a gray ceiling in his tiny cell, the motion was unsettling.

The flask of whiskey was in his hand, but he hadn’t remembered pulling it from his pocket. He fingered it, wondering why he even bothered buying it. He was no drinker. He sat up and put the flask on the small desk. For some reason, given the speed and insanity of the day’s events, he’d felt compelled to bring whiskey with him. Like nothing would make sense unless he was drunk.

After digging wells and stumbling through day after day of mind-numbing boredom, he was suddenly a free man, conditionally at least. All he had to do was go find some thing—man . . . beast . . . he still wasn’t sure—that couldn’t be killed and find a way to kill it.

Sure. Should be easy. Locate some men-things that weren’t men, who hadn’t been seen by a living soul for years at a time, and could apparently appear on a whim to wipe out an entire platoon of armed men and disappear without a trace.
What have you gotten yourself into, Jonas?
he thought.
You didn’t take the time to think. Just like always.

Hollister had been posted to the Michigan 7
th
Cavalry, right out of West Point in 1864. His father, Thomas, was a well-to-do farmer in Michigan, and a prominent member of the state Republican party. It had been no problem for the elder Hollister to secure his son’s appointment to the academy. Jonas knew his father had hoped the war would be over before he graduated.

The flaw in his father’s plan had turned out to be Jonas himself. When he arrived at the Point, he fell in love with the place. Even the most mundane marching drill and the endless study couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm. Jonas felt like he’d found his calling, and he attacked his classes with a vigor he hadn’t known he’d possessed. After graduating sixth in his class, he’d taken a commission in the cavalry as a second lieutenant.

And as much as he’d loved West Point, he loved the army more. Jonas Hollister was a born fighter. The way some men are meant for politics or business or medicine, Hollister was made for war. He was a natural tactician and had an easy way with commanding soldiers. When staff meetings were held, maps examined and objectives discussed, Hollister could see the entire field in his mind. He instinctively knew the best ground that must be held or taken, where and how the men should be deployed, when to attack, and when to withdraw.

By the fall of ’sixty-four, the Union was driving the Rebs south out of Northern Virginia. They were winning. The South had lost after Gettysburg, with Grant taking Vicksburg and control of the Mississippi—they just didn’t know it yet. After four months in the saddle, riding with Custer, Hollister had been promoted to colonel, given command of a regiment and caught the eye of General Sheridan.

It all had come apart for Hollister near Winchester in March 1965. The men were tired from chasing Lee all over the Shenandoah Valley. No one understood why the rebels just didn’t give up.

Near a small Virginia town called Lancy’s Gap, Hollister had been ordered by Custer to hold a line south of the town, at the bottom of a long ridge, next to an overgrown apple orchard. It was bad ground.

As always, Hollister saw immediately what would happen. His men would deploy along the fencerow while Custer and his brigade dislodged the rebels from the town. But this is where Custer had it backward. The rebels could retreat at their leisure, cutting through the apple orchard. In those close quarters, with their backs to the fencerow, Hollister’s men lost the advantage of being on horseback. Even if Custer succeeded and the Rebs were running, they would still vastly outnumber his troops and cut Hollister’s men to pieces. It was a god-awful plan.

Hollister should be flanking the rebels from the east, he told Custer. If both companies attacked on two sides, even with Hollister’s smaller force, the remaining rebel force could be caught in the village. A southern retreat would allow Hollister’s men to pursue them on horseback and ride them down.

Custer refused. The plan was in place, the order given by General Sheridan himself.

The sun was not quite up yet, but the heat in Custer’s tent was already starting to rise.

He knew George was drunk on Sheridan’s praise. The previous evening at the staff meeting, Sheridan had told the assembled officers how the dashing Custer had been instrumental in laying the trap here at Lancy’s Gap. It was the worst thing he could have said. Custer had an ego the size of his horse and now he was after glory. If he drove the rebels out, he’d make the papers again, probably get promoted. He had fallen in love with the dangerous tactic of dividing his command so he could attack with a smaller force and carry the day with fewer troops. So far he’d been lucky and Sheridan had never called him on it. But his strategy was about to misfire. Most of their engagements the last month had been against smaller forces of Confederates in situations where the rebels were tired, running out of ammo, and desperate. Here, it was different. Jubal Early’s men were battle hardened and maybe running low on supplies and ammunition, but these men still knew how to fight. It wasn’t going to be as easy as Custer thought.

“Sir,” Hollister had said that morning inside Custer’s tent, “with all due respect, General . . .”

Custer held up a hand.

“I know what you’re going to say, Jonas, and you’re wrong. These Rebs have been on the move for weeks with no food and very little ammunition, but their only choice is to fight. Stand your ground and follow your orders. You’ll get a few runners, stragglers, maybe a company at most. On horseback they’ll be easy pickings.” Custer sat at the campaign desk in his tent. He was immaculately dressed; his boots were sparkling. It was a funny thing for Hollister to notice, but he glanced down at his own boots and saw that they were covered in mud and the big toe on his left foot was poking through.

“General . . . George . . . I’m begging you. This is wrong. If you’re even halfway successful, they won’t stand and fight. They’re going to run and I won’t be able to stop them. If we ride in from the east . . . hell, sir, I can even have the men dismount along the . . .” Hollister was pointing to the eastern edge of the village where a small stream meandered beneath a covered bridge on the main road.

“That will be all, Colonel,” Custer said, dismissing Hollister with a wave.

“Sir, respectfully, I must . . .”

“You have your orders, Colonel Hollister. Now attend to your duty. Dismissed.”

By instinct, Hollister came to attention and saluted smartly. He turned on his heel and stormed from the tent. He mounted the bay gelding he had ridden for the last several weeks and rode back to his troopers.

“Orders, sir?” His lieutenant, a rawboned redhead by the name of McAndrews asked him.

“Not good, Mac,” Hollister said. “We’re to take up a position south of the orchard, along the fencerow. I don’t like it, Mac. Not one little bit.” Hollister was steamed, but he had very little time to waste.

“Mac, ride to Captain Ferguson. Tell him to take his company east and form a skirmish line along the edge of this orchard. It’s going to get hot for us, and when he hears it start, he’s to ride through those trees like he owes the devil money. Push hard and keep the Rebs occupied. He needs to thin the herd or we are going to get our asses shot to pieces. Do you understand, Mac?”

“Yes, sir,” the young lieutenant said. “I also must respectfully remind the colonel that he was given no such authority to separate his command.”

“Noted,” said Hollister.

“I must also inform the colonel, in case he should think otherwise, General Custer is full of shit. Sir.”

Hollister couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll forget you said that. Now get moving. Knowing the general, he’ll attack before breakfast. Make sure Ferguson understands.”

He watched McAndrews ride off. He was only two years younger than Hollister but for whatever reason, Jonas felt like a father to him. Being in charge of soldiers in wartime makes a young man old. God, he was being morbid.

“Snap out of it, Jonas,” he muttered to himself. A corporal mounted on a beautiful black stallion heard him talking to himself and smiled. Hollister just shrugged. Custer had him all jangled up.
Time to get your mind right
, he thought.

He momentarily considered riding for Sheridan’s camp, about three miles north of the town. But he’d never make it back in time and that would leave his men without their commanding officer. Something he would never do. Besides, if he went over Custer’s head, he’d probably regret it. He had a feeling Custer was gaming the orders. Changing them up so he got the maximum glory, while still technically following Sheridan’s command.

He heard a distant bugle sound a call to arms.
Shit
, he thought.

“All right, Corporal. Sound the order. To your mounts, let’s ride!” Hollister reined his horse around and broke into a slow trot as he heard the order to mount up work its way down the line of his men. The army had bivouacked in a field northeast of the town the night before, but as always, his regiment was mounted up and ready to go in a matter of seconds. His men had waited for their CO to return from his meeting and give the order. Hollister was popular with his troops. He had uncanny field skills and his troopers had come to understand that when he gave an order, it was always the right move—it would take them through the fight with minimum casualties and maximum success. In return, his men were the most able, polished regiment in Sheridan’s whole command.

In less than thirty minutes they reached their objective and Hollister deployed the men along the fencerow. He gave them the order to advance carbines and marveled at how six hundred men drew their rifles from their saddle scabbards almost in unison. What a fine unit. McAndrews returned on his palomino, his face showing some perspiration. He was always a little nervous before the fighting started, but once the first shot sounded, there was not a steadier man.

“Mac, is Ferguson on his way?” Hollister said to the lieutenant. “I think Custer is up to something and I got a feeling a couple thousand rebels are coming through that orchard before long.”

“Yes, sir, he said to tell you he’ll meet you in the middle. I think he liked your idea,” McAndrews said, drawing his carbine from its holster on his saddle. Together, they waited as their horses pawed at the ground and grazed on the grass.

Shortly after sunrise Hollister heard the sounds of the battle start. It was always a puzzle to Jonas how the fighting commenced with the first quiet pops of the long rifles, usually the Enfields the Rebs used. Then the cannon started a few seconds later and it became a cacophony of noise, indistinguishable from either side. Over the sound came the shouts of thousands of men, the Confederates raising their rebel yell while the Union soldiers shouted back. There was never a break in the shouting, as it quickly became a constant roar: the screams as the shooting intensified, the wails of the men as they fell wounded, and the whining cries of dying horses joined in the chorus.

Hollister waited, fidgeting in the saddle. He could not see into the town, as the orchard was densely overgrown. He heard the sound of cavalry approaching from the west. He wondered if it was Custer, and then for a moment worried the Rebs had somehow gathered themselves and sent reinforcements, but it couldn’t be. Sheridan and his 15,000 troops were north.

The first Reb came out of the orchard at a dead run and almost collided with Hollister’s horse. He was startled to find a line of Union soldiers there, but collapsed when a bullet tore through his chest, skidding to a stop a few feet in front of Jonas.

“Hold . . .” Jonas started to say, but his words trailed off when a bullet whizzed past his left ear. Everything turned to chaos as his men opened fire on an orchard that had come alive with the enemy. He drew his Colt, but saw immediately that his men would be overrun. A wave of gray uniformed soldiers flooded through the trees and the fencerow behind him blocked any hopes to maneuver away.

He had no idea how many times his revolver had clicked on an empty chamber before he realized it was empty.

“Sir, there’s a damn lot of rebels!” Mac shouted to him. And he was right. There were too many. He was going to get his men killed if he didn’t do something quickly.

“Mac, sound the order, about face, retreat! Get the men through that fencerow and get them out of here, go west and regroup on the bridge road. Hurry!” He gave the order to his lieutenant. His pistol was empty and he drew his carbine, as bullets flew everywhere. The wall of fleeing Rebs had pushed his troopers up against the fencerow and before they could move, the ground had become a teeming mass of men and horses, and still more Confederates poured out of the orchard.

“Retreat!” Hollister shouted. “Bugler! Sound retreat.” Nothing happened because his bugler had been killed. Hollister saw three Confederate soldiers riding horses back toward the town, having pulled his troopers from them. It had all turned to shit. God damn Custer.

Hollister spurred his horse, pushing the nervous animal through the mass of men. Retreating to the south was out. “Forward! Move forward!” he shouted. He found some clear space and rode back and forth, exhorting his men. He wanted them to follow him into the orchard to fight their way through the retreating rebels. A few of his men saw him in the confusion and understood his order. But the chaos seemed insurmountable and he saw two more of his men go down.

“Mac! Turn the men! Forward into the orchard! Hurry!” He shouted at Mac and the lieutenant rose in his saddle and shouted, “Forward through the orchard! Return fire! Forw—”

His words died on his lips as a minié ball entered just below his left eye. Mac catapulted off his horse, his body falling to the ground, disappearing among the gray uniforms.

“MAC!” Hollister shouted “NO!” He was about to spur his horse toward the fallen lieutenant, but a hand reached out and grabbed the halter of his mount.