North and South: The North and South Trilogy (84 page)

Infuriated, Bent was ready to try another shot, caution abandoned now. A thrashing in the corn caught his attention. He whipped his head around. Not eight feet away there was a horseman.

“O’Dell! I didn’t see you—” Terrified, Bent felt his bladder let go.

“What in hell are you doing, sir? Why did you shoot at one of your own men?”

The quiet accusation had an unexpected effect. It restored Bent’s calm, made him realize the extent of the danger into which his hate had pushed him. No words could save him at this point. He answered O’Dell by raising the Allen and Wheelock to firing position.

O’Dell’s mouth opened, but he had no time to cry out. Bent’s shot destroyed most of O’Dell’s face and flung him sideways. His left boot tore free of the stirrup, but not his right. The roan cantered away with O’Dell hanging head down. His skull was quickly beaten to pieces by the hard ground.

Fighting panic, Bent looked around hurriedly. No one had seen the shooting. It was still too dark, with powder smoke and mist further hampering visibility. Bent holstered his gun and again drew his saber. With the blade at tierce point, he screamed the order for his men to advance at a trot.

Charles had already taken care of issuing that order. Three troopers closed on the last Indian sentinel and dropped him with well-placed shots. One man sabered the Comanche’s throat for good measure.

Charles rode to within twenty feet of the farmhouse, risking himself so that the Lantzmans would be sure to hear his shout:

“This is the Second Cavalry. Hold your fire.”

Silence settled. Smoke drifted away in the mist. Bent trotted forward. “Dismount.
Dismount!”

Gradually the troopers obeyed. Panting, Bent dropped to the ground in the midst of milling horses. He hoped the dark would help hide his damp trousers.

“Good work, men. We carried the day.”

“We lost three men,” Charles said, still in the saddle. Bent wished he could raise the revolver and blow Charles’s head off. But reckless action had nearly undone him once; it must not happen again.

“No, wait,” Charles exclaimed. “Where’s O’Dell?”

He called the officer’s name twice, loudly. Then Bent spoke. “No use, Lieutenant. One of the savages got him. I saw him fall. His horse dragged him off.”

Bent’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. If anyone was to challenge his lie, it would happen now—
now
—

“God,” Charles said softly, climbing down. No one else uttered a word.

Bent exhaled. He was safe. He squared his shoulders. “I regret the loss as much as you, but we must consolidate our gains and plan our next move. We’ll want pickets along this side of the house, Lieutenant. Take care of it while I see to those inside.”

He pivoted, one hand resting on his saber hilt. He felt exactly like a conquering general as he strode toward the log house, calling, “Lantzman?”

Charles detailed four troopers to bring in the dead; it hadn’t occurred to Bent, apparently.

He watched one member of the detail spread tarpaulins close to the farmhouse wall. Dawn light filled the eastern sky now. The mist was dissipating. Inside, Bent could be heard making pronouncements to people who spoke much more softly than the captain; Charles detected at least one feminine voice. Bent’s tone of authority angered him. The man might do passably well as a staff officer, but as a line commander he was an incompetent. He had botched the advance to the farm. In anticipation of sentinels, they should have approached in double file, to present a narrower target. Or, better still, on foot, as Charles had suggested.

The captain’s refusal had cost them four dead. A fifth trooper was out of action with a ball in his foot. Add to that the two men dispatched to Camp Cooper, and their effective strength was reduced to seventeen. Against thirty or more Comanches still left.

Two of the detail appeared, dragging something in an indigo saddle blanket. “We found everyone but Lieutenant O’Dell, sir. There’s no sign of him.”

Charles nodded in an absent way. He looked to the hills beyond the pitiful fields. The man who had befriended him was lost out there with no one to mourn him. Charles’s eyes filled with tears. Then shock settled in. His legs shook. He had to lean against the log wall to keep from falling. The men in the detail looked elsewhere until the worst of it passed.

Suddenly, there was an outburst of yelling from the creek side of the house. Charles hurried to the corner and peered around. Over in the Comanche camp, the braves were milling their horses, brandishing lances, whooping. Most of them were young men, their glossy hair parted in the center and braided in long queues. Some had accentuated the part by streaking it with white or yellow clay. Faces were painted red, with white or yellow eyelids. One warrior had drawn huge black fangs all around his mouth.

A wagon creaked down the hillside toward the noisy Indians. The sight of it hit Charles like a hammer. It was the provision wagon that had been following the soldiers, but now it was being driven by three braves. The left side of the wagon’s canvas top was splotched by a huge bloodstain.

Troopers crowded up behind Charles, whispering and pointing at the wagon. “The red fuckers,” one man growled. “What d’you suppose they did with our boys?”

Charles said, “I’d rather not know.”

He headed for the back door of the farmhouse. The death of Lafayette O’Dell placed an unwanted responsibility on him. To make matters worse, the captain refused to admit that he was in over his head. If any of Bent’s ideas were questioned, he would surely fly into a rage. Charles would just have to accept that fact—that added problem—and deal with it as best he could.

Thank God no decisions were required immediately. All they had to do was dig in and await the reinforcements.

The last hour had changed Charles’s ideas about the nature of war. War was not a gay martial parade on the Plain with the ranks perfectly aligned, every bit of brass polished, and the flags flying while the drums beat cadence. War was disorder, dirt, death. It was nerve-shredding fright.

His legs still felt shaky as he entered the farmhouse. The interior consisted of a long, flat-roofed room with alcoves for sleeping, plus another housing an iron stove. The place reeked of powder smoke and something far worse. He saw flies walking on two bodies covered to the neck by blankets. One, an older, gray-haired man, he presumed to be Lantzman. The other was the farmer’s oldest son, Karl, the one whose leg injury had prevented the family from fleeing. He presumed both men had died outside.

Four members of the family remained. Mrs. Lantzman was a worn little woman with moles on her chin. Two blond sons in their late teens moved slowly, like sleepwalkers. Their eyes were glassy. The fourth survivor, a girl, seemed less affected by the siege, perhaps because she was younger.

She was about twelve, Charles guessed. Her sweet face reflected her youth, but she had already developed a woman’s figure. As Charles stood silently, he saw Bent’s eyes shift and linger on the full bosom within the tight, stained bodice of the girl’s kersey dress.

The girl was unaware of the attention. She was busy pulling round shot from a leather pouch hung from her shoulder. Her long gun leaned against her other hip. An Augustin musket, Charles noticed; Austrian jaeger battalions carried them, and the quartermaster of the Army, Joe Johnston, imported a good many.

Close to tears, Mrs. Lantzman said, “How can we stay here, Captain? We have no more food. My husband died trying to reach the creek to bring back water.”

“We have rations to share. Water, too.” Bent sounded smooth and confident. “I’ll have my men dig in around the house”—Charles had crossed the room and now put his eye to a loophole on the creek side. His right hand clenched—“while we await the reinforcements. With no bad weather to hamper them, they should arrive before the end of the day.”

Without turning, Charles said, “I think not, Captain.”

“What’s that?”

“You’d better see this. A half-dozen braves just rode in. Look at the ones with lances.”

Bent waddled to the loophole and squinted. His face drained of color. Four of the new arrivals held their lances high and shook them. On the points of two, trophies were impaled.

The heads of the two soldiers sent to Camp Cooper.

Charles thought the captain would go to pieces. Bent paced, muttered to himself, several times turned to blurt some thought but never did. There was a wild, vacant glint in his eye. The dazed Lantzman boys knew something was amiss. Even the girl stared at the captain fearfully.

Every second was precious now. Charles cleared his throat. “Sir—”

Bent whirled, shouting, “What is it?”

“I’d like permission to send scouts back through the cornfield. That’s our only avenue of retreat.”

The captain gave a limp wave and sank onto a stool. “Go ahead.” He stared into space as Charles hurried out.

Charles was back in twenty minutes, looking grim. “They’ve already moved men into the gullies behind the field. At least fifteen, Corporal Ostrander said. We’re cut off. Surrounded.”

Why hadn’t they left before this? Charles asked himself in a silent burst of fury. But of course he couldn’t hold Bent responsible for their failure to do so; they had all anticipated the eventual arrival of a relief column. Evidently the two dead troopers had run into one of those small bands whose signs Doss had discovered. Charles had a feeling the entire expedition was cursed.

Bent swiped a hand across his perspiring face. “Surrounded? Then we must dig in and wait for help.”

“From where?” Charles exclaimed.

“I don’t know! Someone will come—” The sentence trailed off.

“But Captain,” the girl said, “is there enough food?”

Mrs. Lantzman shook her head. “Hush, Martha. Don’t question the soldiers. They know best.”

“Yes. Exactly right,” Bent said with another of those vague looks.

He was foundering again. Charles couldn’t permit it to continue. “Just a minute,” he said.

Bent’s head jerked around, his moist eyes brimming with resentment. Charles spoke to the others rather than to his superior: “We have to recognize that we’re in a bad situation. We’re outnumbered, and no one from Camp Cooper will be coming to relieve us. The Comanches can build up their forces and attack at their pleasure. I don’t believe any of us wants to sit here and wait to be killed. Or taken prisoner,” he added with a glance at Martha. Mrs. Lantzman understood his meaning.

“What do you propose we do?” Bent snarled.

“Hold on till dark, then attempt to break out. I’ve thought of a way to distract—”

Bent jumped up, overturning the stool and screaming his answer.

“No.”

As the cry died away, a strange feeling swept over Charles. He felt as though he had just decided to leap into a chasm—which, in a way, he had. But what other choice did he have? Bent was out of control, incapable of dealing with the situation.

“I’m sorry, sir, but escape is the only way.”

The captain’s face reddened again. He grabbed a small puncheon table, hurled it aside, and stormed toward Charles. “Are you disputing me? Questioning my authority?”

“If you mean to stay here, Captain, I guess I am.”

“Lieutenant”—Bent took a deep breath in an effort to control himself, but his voice still shook—“you will say nothing more. That is a direct order. Go outside until I send for you.”

Charles hated matters to come to this—a test of authority, of wills. The two of them should be pulling together to save the others. But how did you convince a lunatic of that? he asked himself wearily.

“I’ll go, sir,” he said, “but I can’t obey the rest of the order. If we stay here, we’re finished.”

Bent looked at him a moment, then said quietly, “Lieutenant Main, you will obey my order or face court-martial.”

“Captain, we’re leaving.”

Bent grabbed Charles’s collar and twisted. “Goddamn it, I’ll see that you’re cashiered!”

Charles deliberately removed Bent’s hand. He wanted to hit the fat officer; only with great effort did he restrain himself. His voice dropped low. “If we get back alive, you’re welcome to try.”

He glanced at Mrs. Lantzman, her two sons, and finally at the girl, who stood holding her Austrian musket in both hands. “We’ll leave as soon as it’s dark. I’ll take anyone who wants to go. If you do, you’d better bury those bodies. We can’t take them.”

Mrs. Lantzman knelt beside her husband’s corpse, shooed the flies off, and began to straighten the blanket. Suddenly she burst into tears. Charles looked away.

The resolute expression on Martha’s face showed she had already made up her mind. Charles turned to the captain and said, “I’ll make the same offer to the men. No one will be forced to go.”

Bent whispered, “Get out of my sight.”

Doubled over, Charles ran toward the edge of the cornfield a few minutes later. From the ravines on the far side, a shot boomed. The ball hissed through the tassels above him. Kneeling, he tore off a couple of leaves and rolled them between his palms.

Dry as powder. Now if he could persuade Mrs. Lantzman to turn her horses loose—the Comanches would get them anyway—they might have a chance, although not much of one.

W
ESTWARD, ONLY A THIN
rind of sun showed above the foothills. The light was rapidly fading from the land and sky. In his mind Charles had gone over the escape plan and the signals involved half a dozen times.

An hour ago, following his instructions, troopers had built a cook fire halfway between the house and the field, where the Indians would be sure to see it. Inside, Mrs. Lantzman and her daughter had wrapped rags around the ends of cottonwood branches and soaked the rags in lamp oil. The Lantzman boys had saddled horses for the family and were now in position behind the hay bales on the far side of the building, prepared to make the dangerous dash to the corral.

Corporal Ostrander slipped through the shadows to Charles’s side. “Sir, everything’s ready.”

“All right, it’s time. We—”

He stopped as Ostrander’s startled eyes focused somewhere beyond him. Charles turned. From the farmhouse door Bent spoke.