Preacher (14 page)

“Well, I can see now that your saving my life that night was no mere accident,” Captain Harding said that evening. “Sergeant Delacroix informs me that you are the best marksman in our company.”

“Thank you,” Art said.

“Have you ever used a rifle?”

“My father had a Kentucky long rifle,” Art said. “I used to hunt squirrels with it.”

“No doubt your family never went without meat when you were on the trail. By the way, your last name isn't really Gregory, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“I didn't think so. Do you want to tell me what it really is?”

Art didn't answer.

“The reason I ask is, someone should know. You're about to go into battle, Art. I'm sure you know that means that you could be wounded, or even killed. Don't you think your family would like to know what happened to you?”

“I think they'd rather believe I'm alive somewhere,” Art replied. “See, as long as they think that, then I am alive, leastwise in their mind.”

“I suppose,” Harding agreed.

“Besides which, if I ever do something to disgrace the name, I'd just as soon it be somebody else's name.”

“Have you been in contact with your family since you left?”

Art didn't answer. Instead, he looked out over the edge of the boat at the riverbank, now slipping ever deeper into its shroud of evening shadows. From time to time, when he thought of his family, he realized that he did miss them. He wondered how they were getting along, and when he did remember to say his prayers, he would always include a prayer for their well-being. He tried to avoid thinking about them, though, because at this late date, he didn't want to start having second thoughts about what he had done.

“You don't want to talk about your family, do you?” Harding asked.

“No, sir, I'd as soon not.”

“Well, then we will talk about something else. For example, what happened to you that night back in New Madrid? When I came back, you were gone.”

“I'm not sure what happened,” Art admitted. “I went outside to pee, and the next thing I knew I woke up in a wagon headed north.”

“With your money gone, no doubt,” Harding said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I have been feeling guilty about that night ever since I left you. I don't know what got into me to cause me to just leave like that.”

Art smiled. “As I recall, you wanted to go somewhere with that painted woman.”

Harding laughed. “Ah, yes, Lily, her name was. A lovely young woman who is often misunderstood.”

“Misunderstood?”

“There are those who would find fault with the profession she has chosen to follow, but I say she does a great service for men who sometimes find themselves in need.”

“Like you were that night?”

“Yes, like I was that night,” Harding said. “So, while I was satisfying my need, someone hit you over the head and robbed you. But at least you got a wagon ride all the way to St. Louis, so some good came from the evil.”

Art started to tell Harding how the wagon owner had also left him for dead, but decided that Harding already felt bad enough, so he held his tongue. Then he thought to tell him of his year with the Indians, but decided this would not be the best time to do so. If they encountered Shawnee during their trip down, it would no doubt be the same village he had been staying with.

What if they did encounter Shawnee? What if a battle broke out between them? Would he have it in him to fire on his Shawnee brothers? Keytano had suggested that his white heart could not make war against his Shawnee heart. But Techanka had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that if they met again, they would meet as enemies.

* * *

Three days after leaving St. Louis, the boat put in at Cape Girardeau. They were met by a few of the merchants of Cape, anxious to sell goods and services to the Army. They were met also by a lieutenant and four soldiers, recently stationed at Cape Girardeau to defend against any repeat of the Shawnee attack.

“Any more sign of the Shawnee?” Captain Harding asked the lieutenant in charge.

“No, sir.”

The lieutenant's name was William Garrison. He was a member of the regular Army and had fought against the British since the war began. He was bitter about being assigned to the wilderness of the Far West where his only adversaries were Indians.

“I doubt that those heathen cowards will attack, now that we have defenses in place,” he went on. “The blockhouse is now equipped with a cannon and a swivel gun, sufficient to turn back any Indian endeavor.”

“Do you have any idea where their village is?” Harding asked. “I've heard they might be on the Castor River.”

“I've no idea where they are.”

“You haven't sent out a scouting party to try and find them?”

“With all due respect, Captain, I have made no effort to engage the heathens. Prior to my assignment here I was fighting against the British. They are real soldiers. That is why I am happy to tell you that I have orders attaching myself to your command. I'll be going to New Orleans with you.”

“General Jackson seems to think that the British troops are massing around New Orleans, getting ready to launch an attack. We are assembling whatever troops we can muster, but I'm sure that the British are going to have us outnumbered and outgunned. It will be good to have someone of your experience with me.”

“Well, sir, I've been to New Orleans,” one of the citizens of Cape Girardeau said. “And there ain't nothin' there but a bunch of Frenchmen, Creoles, and half-breed nigras. There ain't a damn thing there worth fightin' for, and if you ask me, they ain't nothin' going to happen there. If you want to know where all the action is, why, it's goin' to be right here, either with the heathen Indians or the swinish British. The redskins and the redcoats,” he added, laughing in such a way as to suggest it wasn't the first time he had ever told the joke.

Harding laughed politely. “Redskins and redcoats,” he said, turning the phrase over in his mind. “Sounds to me like they were meant for each other. It is a marriage. But the question is, was it made in heaven? Or was it made in hell?”

“A marriage?” the man asked, confused by the analogy.

“A figure of speech, sir,” Captain Harding said. “Merely a figure of speech. Now, if you and the good citizens will excuse me, I must get my men rounded up. We are continuing on to New Orleans.

Lieutenant Garrison took over Sergeant Delacroix's duties as chief of training, and as they proceeded downriver, he continued with the instruction. His instructions included incessant drilling, which began each evening when the boat put ashore for the night.

“You know what I'm beginning to think?” Monroe mused as he was cleaning his rifle.

“No, what are you beginning to think?” Finley asked.

“I'm beginning to think we ain't never goin' to see no fightin'. All we're goin' to do is drill, sleep outside, stay wet, cold, and hungry with nothin' good to eat.”

“Now, hold on there,” Mitchell said. “What do you mean you ain't getting anything good to eat? Is that the thanks I get for cooking for you?” Even as Mitchell spoke, he was making corn dodgers by wrapping a paste of cornmeal, lard, and water around his ramrod, then holding the ramrod over an open fire, baking the mixture into bread. He leaned over to examine his work and, noticing that it was not quite ready, put it back into the fire.

“How much longer before they are done?” Monroe asked.

“Soon,” Mitchell replied.

“Is that all we're havin' for our supper? A few corn dodgers?”

“Not a few, one,” Mitchell said, holding up his finger. “One apiece.”

“Damn, wouldn't some meat be good about now? Ham, or chicken, or just about anything,” Monroe said. He looked around the camp. “Now where do you think Art's got off to?”

* * *

“I'll be damned,” Sergeant Delacroix said. “Captain Harding, look what's coming.”

Delacroix's exclamation caused Harding to look up. He saw Art coming out of the woods, a broad smile on his face, and a string of game, specifically six rabbits and three squirrels, hanging around his shoulders.

“My word,” Lieutenant Garrison said. “How do you suppose Private Gregory came by those? I didn't hear any shooting, did either of you?”

“Private Gregory is a resourceful young man,” Harding said.

“I wondered where he had gotten off to,” Delacroix said.

“I thought perhaps the boy had deserted us,” Lieutenant Garrison said.

“Oh, I knew he hadn't deserted,” Delacroix said. “I was against signing him up at the beginning, but the boy has certainly proved himself to me. And now, I'm sure he has just proven himself to the men as well.”

“Do you think he will share his good fortune with them?”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” Harding said.

“Then perhaps I will go see him and make certain that we get our share,” Garrison said.

“You'll do no such thing,” Harding said, stopping Garrison in his tracks.

“What do you mean?” Garrison replied, surprised at Harding's comment.

“He's the one who trapped the game. Whatever disposition he makes is up to him.”

“Captain, I realize that you are not a regular officer,” Garrison said. “Perhaps, therefore, it is incumbent upon me to widen the instruction I have been giving to the men, to include you as well. We are officers, sir, you and I. And as officers, we are entitled to respect, authority, and certain, shall we say, benefits? One of those benefits is a disproportionate share of any legal booty gained by the command. In this case, the game that Private Gregory has taken.”

“That might be the way of things back East,” Harding said. “But it's not how it is out here. Whatever Private Gregory does with his game is up to him.”

With a sullen expression on his face, Lieutenant Garrison resumed his seat on a fallen log.

* * *

Settling down by the fire, Art began skinning and cleaning the animals. Then he cut skewers and, in less than an hour, had all the meat roasting over the fires. When it was done, he took three choice pieces of the flame-broiled meat over to Captain Harding, Lieutenant Garrison, and Sergeant Delacroix.

“I thought you might like this,” he said, holding out the meat.

Gratefully, they took the food.

“Won't you eat with me, Art?” Harding asked.

“Captain Harding, I'm just a private,” Art said. “Lieutenant Garrison and Sergeant Delacroix already told me. Privates and officers don't socialize.”

“This isn't socializing. This is business,” Harding said.

“Very well, sir.”

Harding smacked his lips appreciatively. “Mmm, this is very good,” he said. “You've come a long way, Art. You're a woodsman, hunter, cook. And you have certainly made a believer of Delacroix. He tells me you are the best man in his company. In fact, he wants me to make you a corporal.”

“I don't think I would want to be a corporal, sir,” Art said. “I have enough trouble just taking care of myself.”

“Taking care of yourself, huh? Like feeding the entire company?”

“Wasn't all that much,” Art demurred.

“I don't agree with you,” Harding said. “But I do agree with Delacroix. I've just promoted you to corporal.”

Art smiled. “I don't see as I deserve it any more'n anyone else, but I appreciate it,” he said.

“Cap'n Harding! Cap'n Harding!” someone shouted. “Come quick!”

“What is it?” Harding asked.

“It's Bedford and Nunlee, sir.”

“Bedford and Nunlee? I put them out as sentries,” Delacroix said. “What about them?”

“They're dead.”

Upon hearing that, the others in the bivouac started toward the woods where Bedford and Nunlee had been last seen.

“Stay where you are!” Harding ordered. “There's no need in everyone going out to see. Corporal Gregory, take six men and investigate. The rest of you, stay alert.”

“Corporal Gregory?” Monroe asked. “Did he say Corporal Gregory?”

“Good for him,” Mitchell said. “He's the best of the lot, he should be a corporal.”

Mitchell and Gregory were among the six men Art took with him. When they got closer, they could see two bodies lying on the ground. Several arrows were protruding from the bodies and both had been scalped.

“Shawnee,” Art said.

“What?” Monroe asked.

“These arrows,” Art said. “They are Techanka Shawnee.”

“You can tell that just by looking at them?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly there was a whir, then the thumping sound of arrows striking flesh. One of the six men went down. The remaining arrows buried themselves in the ground close by.

“Form up into two ranks!” Art shouted. Without question, the men followed his orders. “First rank, fire!”

The three men in the first rank fired. Immediately, Art began pouring powder into the barrel of his gun, readying it for a second discharge. Even as he did so, he gave orders to the second rank to fire.

Again, the sound of guns echoed back from the woods.

“Second rank, reload!” Art shouted. “First rank, fire as you are loaded!”

“Art, here come some of our men!” Mitchell shouted happily, and Art turned around to see several others coming, led by Sergeant Delacroix.

* * *

One hundred yards away, protected by a tree, Tolian drew back his bow and took a careful bead on one of the Americans. He was aiming at the one who seemed to be giving orders to the others. The American was looking back toward another group of men who were running from the camp to join them. When he looked back around, Tolian recognized him.

“Artoor!” he said under his breath. He released the tension on the bowstring. He couldn't shoot his brother, could he? Then he remembered that Techanka had said that Artoor was no longer his brother, that if they met again as enemies, they would be enemies.

“Tolian, many more have come,” Techanka said. “We must go!”

“Wait,” Tolian said. He drew back the bow again. It was a long shot and the arrow would need to travel far, so he pulled the bow back further. Suddenly there was a cracking sound as his bow snapped under the pressure.

“Come!” Techanka said. “We must go now!”

Disgusted with the broken bow, Tolian tossed it aside and looked again across the distance to Art.

“The Great Spirit has spared you this time,” he said under his breath. “Perhaps that is as it should be. Perhaps you were not meant to die today.” Tolian turned to follow the others, who ran quickly back into the woods.

* * *

“Fire!” Sergeant Delacroix shouted, and fire and smoke billowed from the ends of the barrels as several men discharged their weapons. The balls whizzed into the trees, clipping limbs and poking holes through leaves. As soon as that line fired, the second line raised their rifles to their shoulders, awaiting the order to shoot.

“Sergeant Delacroix, they're gone!” Art shouted.

“Wait!” Delacroix ordered. “Lower your weapons!”

Reluctantly, the men did so.

“Save your powder, boys, we're just shooting into empty trees.”

* * *

“Two dead and one wounded,” Lieutenant Garrison said angrily. “Two dead and one wounded while we still sit idly here in camp.”

“And what would you propose that we do, Lieutenant Garrison?” Harding asked.

“I propose that we take the fight to the enemy,” Garrison said. “Let me take ten men in pursuit of the devils.”

“No,” Harding said. “Our first priority is to proceed to New Orleans with as many men as we can muster. We will be extra vigilant, and if they return, we will be ready for them. But I will not take the time, nor risk the men, to hunt them down.”

“If not an attack against them, then at least let me take a few men out to find them, the better to be forewarned should they attempt another adventure against us,” Garrison said.

“You may take four men,” Harding said. He held up a cautionary finger. “But remember, this is only to find them. You are not to engage them.”

“Yes, sir,” Garrison said.

“I would recommend that you take Corporal Gregory as your second in command,” Harding said. “He seems to be uncommonly at home in the woods.”

“Very good, sir,” Garrison replied. But as he walked away, he spoke in words that were too quiet to be overheard by anyone. “I'll be damned if I will take a snot-nosed boy as my second in command.”

Acting upon his own, Garrison ordered six men to go with him. He was convinced that six men he had trained, obedient to orders, would be the equal to several times that many Indians. And he wouldn't need Corporal Gregory. Especially as Gregory seemed to exhibit total and unqualified loyalty toward Harding.

* * *

Tolian was sitting on a log eating a strip of dried horse meat when a scout reported to Techanka.

“Are they coming after us?” Techanka asked.

“Yes. Seven men.”

Techanka looked surprised. “Seven? Are you certain there are only seven?”

“Yes. They walk like this,” the scout said, and he held up his fingers to demonstrate that the Americans were now approaching in a drill-field order.

“That is no way to go to battle,” one of the Indians said. “Perhaps they are coming to talk.”

“Is Artoor with them?”

“No,” the scout replied.

“Then I do not believe they are coming to talk, for if they were, they would have Artoor speak for them.”

“What shall we do?”

“We shall wait for them,” Techanka said. “And when they are close enough, we will kill them all and take their weapons.”

“Yip, yip, yip!” Metacoma barked in excitement. “After this, we will have many stories to tell around the council fires!”

“Quiet!” Techanka cautioned. “Do you want the Americans to be frightened away by your shouts?”

Chastised, Metacoma grew quiet.

“Come,” Techanka said. “We will take our positions and wait for the Americans.”

The scout showed Techanka the route the approaching Americans were taking, so it was easy for Techanka to put his warriors in hiding for them. He put three behind some rocks, three more lay down on top of a little hill, and the remaining six hid in the woods. When all were in position, Techanka went up the trail for a short distance to determine if any of his warriors could be seen. He could see no one, even though he knew exactly where to look. Then, satisfied that all was in readiness, he hurried back to his own position.

He could hear the Americans before he could see them. Their steps were striking in rhythm, like the beating of a drum, and they were making a lot of noise as they came up the trail. Techanka took one last look around to make certain no one was exposed; then he crouched again and waited.

The warriors had been told not to attack until Techanka gave them the word, so he waited until the Americans were well within range. He didn't want any of the Americans to escape, and because he had more warriors and the advantage of surprise, he was sure that none would. He watched as they came into view, and he studied the faces of each of them because he wanted to know the men he killed.

The one who appeared to be the leader was a rather small man with a dark, drooping mustache. He was the one Techanka wanted for himself, so he drew back the bow and aimed carefully.

“Aiiiyeee!” he shouted as he loosed the arrow.

His arrow buried into the chest of the leader, and his shout caused the others to shoot as well.

Only two of the other Americans were hit with the opening fusillade, leaving four who could return fire. But without leadership, all four remaining Americans fired at once, and they fired without taking aim. Afterward, they threw down their guns and turned to run.

They didn't get very far.