Heaven and Hell (79 page)

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"He attempted to prevent our work with the pony herd."

"Your butchery," Charles said.

"Your tender sensibilities object to that, Mr. Main?" Custer strode over to Charles, addressing him as though Charles did not have an eye swelling shut, a cheek dripping blood, and snot hanging from his nose

"You prefer that we leave healthy horses so the savages can ride them in the spring to commit more atrocities? General Sheridan charged me with the duty of punishing the Cheyennes and Arapahoes--"

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"Black Kettle was a peace chief."

"That's of no consequence. My responsibility is to eradicate the threat to white people--" Why was he talking so much, Charles wondered.

To whom was he justifying his actions? He didn't have to do it to a shabby scout of questionable background. Despite his pain, Charles had a sharp sense that Custer was aware that today had damaged him; a sense that he was already on the run. "A duty which I have this day carried out. Only total war will bring peace to these plains."

"May be, but I don't want-any more of it."

"What? What's that?" Custer was caught off guard, his blue eyes confused, then angry again.

"I said I don't want any more of your kind of war. I shouldn't have signed on."

"We should not have engaged you," Custer retorted. California Joe looked ready to sink into the ground.

Charles threw everything into the pot and made his last bet. "I'm leaving. If you want to stop me, you'll have to shoot me. Or order someone to do it."

Venable said, "I would be pleased--"

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"Be quiet!" Custer shouted. He was breathing fast, his face ruddier than Charles had ever seen it. "You're rash to suggest that, Mr.

Main. I can very easily order you shot. Witnesses to your rebellious behavior will testify to the necessity--"

"You've got enough trouble on your hands." Blood in Charles's beard formed a drop that fell and struck a patch of snow between his boots. He tried to shut out the sounds of the steady small-arms fire, the horses dying. "I saw Mrs. Blinn shot. I saw her son shot."

"I have it on reliable authority that the Cheyennes slew the woman."

"Your men shot her, I saw it. So did others."

"We have no evidence the white woman was the Mrs. Blinn wr>o was abducted from--"

"I heard her name and others did, too." Bleeding, glowering, Charles-pushed Custer. The Boy General was momentarily panicked; Charles saw that in the bright blue eyes. "They're not going to call this a battle, they're going to call it a massacre. Babies with bullets in their heads. Women scalped by United States soldiers. A white captive and a peace chief, an old man, murdered. Not a very pretty episode to include in a campaign biography, would you say, General?"

George Custer took one half-step backward; it said everything.

Venable was almost spitting with frustration. "General Custer, no one will believe anything from a man who lied twice to get in the

Army."

Charles nodded. "You're right. And I'm really not interested in 500 HEAVEN AND HELL

talking to newspapermen, Mr. Keim or any other. I'm not interested in getting even with anybody. I followed that trail a long time and look where it got me." No one understood what he meant.

His stinging eyes moved over the ruined village, the ashes of the great bonfire, out to the hideous quivering mound of dead and dying horses. "I had to kill a boy this morning. Not a man. A boy. I'll see him in nightmares till I die. I'll see this obscene place, too. I'm sick of this army. I'm sick of soldiers like you who work out their ambitions with human lives. I'm sick of the whole goddamn mess. Now either let me go or shoot me, you miserable excuse for a human being."

Venable stepped in, arm flying back to give Charles a roundhouse blow to the head. "Leave him alone," Custer said. Venable fairly jerked
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at the sharp order. Custer wiped his mouth. "Let him go. We have enough to explain already."

"General, you can't permit--"

"Damn you to hell, Captain Venable, close your mouth. Mr.

Main--" Custer shook a finger under Charles's nose, his teeth gritted together as if he couldn't trust himself to keep control. "I will give you five minutes to cross the Washita. If you are not north of the river in five minutes, I will order a detachment to pursue and shoot you.

You are a disgrace to the Army and a disgrace to manhood. Dismissed, sir."

"Yes, sir--" Charles weighted the words, strung them out-- "General--Custer.''

There was a long, dangerous moment when they stared at one another. Then, like two bears that had clawed and bloodied each other to exhaustion, they simply turned away, both of them, and gave up the fight.

Little Harry Venable wouldn't give up. He followed Charles through the trees, and Charles took some satisfaction from that. Custer's decision had reduced the Kentuckian to something like a small boy who didn't dare use his fists, only taunts:

"It's a long way to Fort Dodge. I hope the hostiles catch you" They probably will, Charles thought. "I hope they carve your heart

out."

Charles stopped. Venable inhaled loudly. Charles stared at him with a twisted smile. "You hopeless little pile of shit. My war's over.'

"What?"

He turned and walked on. He knew Venable would never pull his gun.

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He found Satan, untied him, patted him and mounted. He judged the time to be around four, but the November afternoon was exceptionally cloudy and dark. He rode out of the Cheyenne village at a trot, every movement of the piebald painful to him. The flesh around his left eye was puffy, his vision squeezed to a slit. He could do nothing about the gash on his face except let it bleed until it clotted. He could wash at the stream where the Seventh had found Elliott--if he got that far.

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An Indian was approaching on the open ground. Charles reined in, reaching for the Spencer in its scabbard. He saw that the hobbling Indian was one of the Osage trackers. The Indian's leggings were soaked.

He proudly showed something in his hand.

"Scalp of Black Kettle. Put him in the deep water. He will be bad meat soon."

"You bastard," Charles said, and rode on.

He crossed the Washita. The water rose to his thighs. Satan strained to keep his head out. Charles was shivering and his teeth were chattering when they emerged. A distant trumpet sounded boots and saddles.

Without looking, he could picture the various units of Custer's command forming up to march.

All of the Indians were downstream, or else it had grown so dark that he couldn't see them on the bluffs. Going up over the edge where the attack had started, he heard Custer's band playing. He knew the tune from the war. "Ain't I Glad to Get Out of the Wilderness."

No, he wasn't. A devastating truth had come to him during the icy river crossing. He didn't belong in South Carolina any more. He didn't belong in Kansas, trying to raise vegetables or dairy cows. And he didn't belong in the U.S. Army, much as he'd liked some of the men he knew in the Tenth Cavalry. What the soldiers had to do was- wrong. Maybe they weren't culprits individually, but together they were. He'd thought he could stomach what the Army had to do. He'd convinced'himself he could in order to revenge the Jacksons. And he'd marched all the way to the Washita to find out he was wrong.

There was no place for him in all the world.

Smaller and smaller, horse and rider diminished into the snow fields and the dark of the Indian Territory.

502 HEAVEN AND HELL

Headquarters Seventh U.S. Cavalry )

In the Field of the Washita River )

Nov. 28, 1868 )

In the excitement of the fight, as well as in self-defence, it so happened that some of the squaws and a few children
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were killed and wounded. . . .

One white woman was murdered by her captors the moment we attacked. . . .

The desperate character of the combat may be inferred from the fact that after the battle the bodies of thirty-eight dead warriors were found in a small ravine near the village in which they had posted themselves. . . .

I now have to report the loss suffered by my own command.

I

regret to mention among the killed, Major Joel H. Elliott and Capt. Louis W. Hamilton, and nineteen enlisted

men. . . .

Excerpts from report to

GENERAL SHERIDAN

MADELINE S JOURNAL

December, 1868. Gen. Caster's defeat of the Indians still much in the news. One editor lionizes him, the next scorns him for "warring upon innocents." I dislike him without having met him. I have never liked men who behave like peacocks. . . .

. . . A tedious two days now concluded. Was called upon to smile excessively, explain endlessly about Mont Royal's return from its ruined state of three years ago. Eight members of the Congress here, on a "tour of inspection" (which seems more like a holiday--three brought their wives, nearly as self-important and prolix as their husbands). The man to whom the others defer, Mr.

Stout of the Senate, waxes oratorical even in the most incidental conversation. I liked neither his smoothness nor the speed and certainty with which he offered opinions--yes to this, no to that, every remark reflecting Radical policy without thought or question.

As

to the reason for the visit, I gather M. R. has acquired something of a reputation as a showplace, for the Washingtonians w~

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tiresomely inspected everything: the phosphate fields, sawmill, a drill by our District Militia, which Andy commands. Senator Stout spent an hour seated like a pupil in Prudence Chaffee's class, making sure two journalists from his entourage were present to transcribe his comments. A pox on politicians.

Not comfortable to have the plantation singled out by the Radicals in this way. We are trying to avoid attention, and the trouble which usually attends it. . . .

. . . Another lonely 'Christmas season. Brett's letter from California expressed similar feelings of melancholy. All is well with Billy's engineering firm, she says. The baby, Clarissa, is four months and thriving. They have had no word from G. in Switzerland since May. It causes them great anxiety. . . .

George dined at half past one, his usual time. The Palace was one of Lausanne's fine hotels and had a splendid kitchen. As a regular, in warm weather he had his own small table by the marble rail of the terrace. Now that winter had swept the tourists out of Switzerland, he had moved inside to a table for one beside a tall window overlooking the same terrace. Through the window he could see across the city's center to Lake Geneva, where one of the trim little steamers berthed at the nearby resort of Ouchy was steaming toward the south shore. He noticed that the sunlight was already pale and slanting.

A few dead leaves whirled across the terrace. He finished his dinner, an excellent terrine of lobster, and his bottle of wine, a delicious Montrachet, and left the table. As he crossed the dining room, he spoke politely to a trio of Swiss, bankers who ate there regularly and had grown aware of him as a regular, too.

They often speculated about the American. They knew he was very rich. They knew he lived without companions, except for servants, in a vast, rather forbidding villa that had a splendid view of the hilly town from the Jorat heights. They wondered among themselves what had marked him.

What they saw was a stout, short man, middle-aged--George had observed his forty-third birthday--with wide streaks of white in his neat dark beard. His posture was very correct, yet he seemed somehow defeated.

He smoked a great many strong cigars, with nervous movements; he left most of them half finished. He seemed to possess everything and to have suffered in spite of it. He was, unlike most of his countrymen

who visited Lausanne, unapproachable. The tourists prattled endlessly; his warmest greeting was a word or two.

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Had his wife left him? Was there some other scandal? Ah, perhaps 504 HEAVEN AND HELL

that was it. He bore a certain resemblance to engraved portraits of the new American President, the general, Grant. Could he be a disgraced relative, exiled?

It would remain his secret. Gentlemen did not pry.

At the dining room door, George said a few words to the headwaiter in French, tipped him, collected his stick, hat, and fur overcoat, and crossed the lobby. An heiress from Athens, a striking olive-skinned woman, expensively dressed, took note of him and caught her breath; she was recently widowed. While a porter sorted her luggage, she tried to catch the eye of the imposing stranger. Nothing forward; merely a recognition. He saw her but strode on. She had the sensation of gazing into a snowbound pool in the heart of a winter wood. Dark waters, and cold.

George walked down a sloping street toward the estate agent's, located just beyond the splendid Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame. There, he found the week's mail delivery, a leather pouch which he tucked under his arm. He walked briskly back up the hills. It took more than an hour to reach the villa, but it was his only activity these days, and he forced himself to do it.

The villa also had a terrace, and a handsomely appointed study overlooking it. A fire was already going in the marble hearth. He pulled a chair close to a bust of Voltaire--Lausanne had been a favorite city of his--and examined the contents of the pouch, starting with the two recent numbers of the Nation, the weekly Republican journal started in

'65 by Edwin Lawrence Godkin. The publication favored such party causes as honest government and bureaucratic reform. George marked an article for reading later. It dealt with resumption, a return to the gold standard as an antidote to all the inflated paper currency circulated during the war. Hard versus soft money was a passionate issue in his homeland.

Next

he unfolded a three-page report from Christopher Wotherspoon.

The profits of Hazard's ironworks were up once again. His superintendent recommended substantial political donations to those