PART 8: APOCALYPSE - 1876

.

DRIED APPLES and MUSTACHES

 

Two tables were pushed together to accommodate the General's dinner party, and Jessamine marveled at the civilized formality of the camp setting. There was a white tablecloth, two bottles of wine, glasses, knives and forks beside pewter plates, and coffee mugs. Besides his aide, Lieutenant Bourke, the General had also invited his favorite scout, Frank Grouard, Infantry Captain George Randall and John Finerty, the Chicago Times reporter who was attached to his summer campaign.
    Grilled trout and roasted prairie chicken were on the menu, along with wild honey and warm biscuits baked and served up by a black Corporal introduced only as "Sam."

Jessamine was ecstatic. She had not had biscuits with this much honey since Thanksgiving at Fort Laramie, and her appetite for them was noticed by all after she had devoured three of them, washed down with a full glass of wine. "Is this a typical meal on a campaign?" she mumbled, her mouth still full.

Lt. Bourke smiled. "Not on a march, Miss. Hardtack and salt pork fill that menu, unless a squad captain is lucky enough to hunt down a deer or elk."

After introductions were made, appreciation for a good meal was evident by all, as table talk was set aside for the serious business of eating. Jessamine noticed the General didn't touch his wine, and ate sparingly, but when they finished, he called for coffee and asked if there were any dried apple slices left. When Jessamine heard "apple slices," an uncontrollable noise squeaked from her throat, and beside her Mitch smothered a chuckle with a little cough.
The General explained that when nearly 300 Crow and Shoshone allies had arrived, dried apple slices were passed around during the sit-down, where grievances were expressed and plans reviewed to solidify the command before battle was enjoined. "A tasty treat makes a great finesse," he grinned.

John Finerty had been puzzled by the use of Indian mercenaries. "Do you always use that many scouts or Indian allies, General?"

Captain Randall, who had been in charge of the recruits quickly answered. "Using tribal Indian enemies in battle is a tactic the General used in his Arizona campaign, and it worked well. The last Apache war chief has surrendered to become a reservation Indian."

"But it was hard to tell the allies from the hostiles on the battlefield when the fight began," Finerty persisted.

"Those allies were our shield," Lt. Bourke said, sliding a finger down the side of his nose. "The Sioux came at us so fast, we didn't have time to get in position. If it weren't for them, I think half the command might have been wiped out in the first hour."

The General nodded. "You handled them well, Captain Randall. It's a miracle we lost only one scout and three wounded after that first foray."

Captain Randall ran his hand over his sloping forehead. A large mustache that covered his entire mouth bobbed when he spoke, shaking loose a few crumbs. "I've never seen the Indians fight with such ferocity," he declared.

"They will always fight that hard when they are protecting a village," the General lamented. "If we didn't run low on ammo, we might have found their village."

The scout, Grouard, who was known for being taciturn, finally spoke with some bold authority. "General, we were being led into a trap. I doubt there was a village at the end of that canyon we funneled into. More likely an ambush."

General Crook frowned. "Frank, you may be right, but if we had enough ammo rounds, I think I might have taken that chance. Destroying their villages is distasteful to me, but if it brings the roamers onto a reservation sooner, we have accomplished our duty."

Jessamine glanced at Mitch and saw the tension cloud his face when he glared at the scout. The man was exceptionally handsome, she thought, with a full lower lip, thin straight nose and rather kindly eyes. His dark hair and skin set him apart, like Mitch, as a mixed breed. She sipped her second glass of wine, amused by the errant thought that perhaps the one thing all the men at the table had in common was a mustache. Big ones, little ones, catching food and drink better than napkins. Even John Finerty, the correspondent, had one, blending into a short brown beard. He was sipping his black coffee, listening intently to all being said, and Jessamine wondered if he was taking mental notes to be transcribed later.

"Did you witness the action?" she asked him.

"Yes ma'am. Closer than I cared to," he admitted. "I never saw such a brave exhibition…on both sides." He turned to Lt. Bourke on his left. "What has become of Col. Henry and Col. Royall?"

"Most of our losses came from Royall's flank," the General interjected, "but Henry made a daring escape to safety."

"Col. Henry was gravely wounded in the face," Lt. Bourke explained. "He was sent back on a mule litter with the rest of the wounded to Fetterman. I think he will live with a broken nose and maybe the loss of one eye, but his life will forever belong to the man who carried him off the field on his back."

"I think the man was one of the allies we enlisted," Randall pointed out, rubbing a finger under his nose.

"It was hard to sort the allies from the enemy in battle," Finerty repeated again. "At one point, one of the Indian chiefs had his pony killed under him, and was stranded on the battlefield. It seemed the whole battle paused when out of the Indian lines a squaw on a fast pony rode to his rescue, and with one fell swoop, the chief leaped up behind her and they raced back to safety, amid cheers from both sides."

"A woman in the battle?" Jessamine was amazed.

"The Indian's sister," Grouard said quietly.

"They had some good leadership," Finerty added. "I heard one of their leaders blowing a whistle throughout the fight, and one of them was using mirrors or some kind of reflector to signal. He seemed to be in charge."

"Crazy Horse," Grouard muttered.

His jaw twitching, Mitch fixed his eyes again on Grouard and finally broke his silence with more of a statement than a question. "You know Crazy Horse?"

"I've met him. He will never live on a reservation," Grouard answered lamely.

"A man who has more to lose will fight to the death," Mitch said in a tone that drew up several eyebrows.

The General reluctantly agreed. "Unfortunately, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull give their people false hope and courage, though it is their way of life they fight for."

"Put in their shoes, General, would you do otherwise?" Mitch pressed. Jessamine was amazed at his outward composure. She brushed her leg against his, and could feel the hard tension radiate from him like a hot stone circling a fire pit.

The General rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "A good question. I think compromise on both sides would lead to a better solution," he admitted.

"Then you disagree with your command?" All eyes shifted between Mitch and the host, quietly gauging their expressions.

General Crook reddened slightly, unused to such a direct challenge. "I don't know if there could ever be a completely satisfying solution," he finally said, "without sacrifice and mutual trust between the races." Grasping his coffee mug tightly, he tapped a finger against the pewter thoughtfully. "General Sheridan seems to think if we destroy the Indian's commissary, we'll destroy the Indian. I don't...always agree with military methods of coercion, but maybe capturing the roamers in a three-pronged vice will achieve...the inevitable result."

Everyone stared into their coffee cups, stunned by the rare and unexpected admission.

Only Jessamine dared to break the silence, speaking to no one in particular. "What is the inevitable, then?"

The correspondent cupped his chin, and seemed about to speak, then thought better of it. His eyes darted around the table, taking in the furrowed brows and lowered eyes. Nobody seemed willing…or able to answer the girl's question. Beneath the table, Mitch reached for Jessamine's hand and squeezed it hard.