Later in the evening, reclining by the scout fire with Old Bob curled up against his belly, asleep, Charles heard music. He recognized "Marching Through Georgia."
"What the hell's going on, Henry?"
"Why, I'm told old Curly sent his bandsmen to lighten General Sheridan's evening with a serenade. Don't you recognize that tune?" He smirked. "The title should be 'Farewell, General Sully.'"
That was the sixth day after departure from the camp on the Arkansas. General Sheridan took personal charge of the expedition, and then Sully and his staff left suddenly for his headquarters at Fort Harker. It wasn't hard to tell which commander Little Phil had backed in the dispute over rank.
Quartermasters began issuing overcoats lined with buffalo hide, high canvas leggings, and fur mittens and caps to the men of the Seventh. Sheridan ordered Custer and his eleven troops to prepare to march before daylight on the morning of November 23.
The issuing of rations and ammunition continued all night. Horses were inspected and questionable ones replaced. Custer cut a new one, Dandy, from the remuda. The best teams were matched with the soundest wagons, which were loaded with provisions for thirty days.
After dark, a peculiar stillness settled over Camp Supply. Charles had experienced a similar quiet before Sharpsburg, and several times in Virginia. In these last hours before a campaign began in earnest, a man liked to be alone with himself and his Bible or the pencil he used to write a farewell letter to be left behind, just in case. Charles wrote such a note for Duncan to read to little Gus. He was sealing it when Dutch Henry stomped into the tent they shared.
"Guess what we got outside."
"The usual. The wind."
"More'n that now." He held the flap open. Charles saw a slantwise pattern of white. "She's piling up fast. They said it'd be a winter war. Damned if they were fooling."
Old Bob snored now and then, but Charles couldn't sleep. He was already bundled in his gypsy robe, waiting impatiently, when the trumpeters played reveille at 4:00 a.m.
He made sure his compass was secure in a pocket — not even the Osages knew much about the country south of Camp Supply — and stepped outside while Dutch Henry yawned himself awake. The wind howled. Snow pelted his exposed flesh. A drift in front of the tent measured six inches. Not an auspicious start.
Likewise awake early, General Custer sent for Dandy, and with the staghounds Maida and Blucher loping after him, rode alone over to the headquarters encampment. He was greeted by darkness and silence. Everyone was still sleeping.
Not daunted, he called for General Sheridan. Presently Little Phil emerged from his tent, two blankets clutched over his long underwear. An orderly lighted a lantern while Custer patted his fretful horse. The snow blew almost horizontally. With his sleep-slitted eyes, Sheridan resembled a Chinese.
"What do you think of this storm, General?" Sheridan asked.
"Sir, I think nothing could serve our purpose better. We can move. The Indians will not. If the snow lasts a week, I'll bring you some scalps."
"I'll be waiting," said Little Phil, returning the salute of his eager commander.
The trumpets sounded the advance. As usual, the scouts were first, horses struggling to step through the mounting drifts. The wind screamed. It was hard to hear anything else, and the earflaps of Charles's muskrat cap only made matters worse. He had been astounded to see a journalist who'd arrived with Sheridan, a Mr. DeBenneville Keim, climb aboard one of the supply wagons, now lost in the darkness behind the scouts. Perhaps Custer had persuaded the reporter that the expedition would achieve some noteworthy results.
He thought he heard his name. He lifted the left flap of his cap. "What's that?"
"I said," Dutch Henry yelled, "we got an observer from Sheridan's staff. He's right back yonder with old Curly. Guess who."
In the snow-lashed darkness, Charles imagined Venable's eyes and, despite the temperature, felt a hot prickle down his back.
49
When the day dawned, the world stayed white. Charles tied a scarf around the lower part of his face but needles of snow still broke painfully against his exposed skin. The incessant moaning and crying of the storm wore on his nerves.
Soon a snow crust built up on his eyebrows. Satan snorted and struggled through deepening drifts. Snow on the horse's back would shiver and blow away only to be thick again in a few minutes. Looking to the rear, Charles could see nothing, though he heard men back there. One of them shouted that the teamsters, already a mile behind with their foundering wagons, were still losing ground.
Griffenstein dropped back to ride beside him. The two tried to exchange comments about the storm. The strain on their throats wasn't worth it. Each man held a mitten near his face, stiffened fingers curled to give some protection to their only reliable guides in the blizzard, the little needles of their pocket compasses. The compasses kept them headed south.
By 2:00 p.m. Custer ordered a halt for the day. The column was strung along the valley of Wolf Creek, which Charles estimated as no more than fifteen miles from their departure point. Horses and men were as blown out as if they'd marched twice that distance. No one knew if they'd see the wagons again.
Stands of timber bordered the frozen creek; around the trunks the drifts were five and six feet high. Among the leafless trees, Charles spied large dark shapes, motionless, very like statues placed in the wilderness by some crazed sculptor. The statues proved to be buffalo standing with their heads down while the storm raged. Only the noise of men wielding axes roused them and started them staggering away. Marksmen brought down three.
Like ants on a white sand beach. Charles and the other scouts moved through a snowy grove. They dug up fallen limbs protruding from drifts, or cut smaller volunteer trees among the bigger ones; they would at least have fires for warmth, even if they got no food from the lost wagons.
Charles and Dutch Henry piled up their wood and went to feed their mounts on the picket line. Satan acted famished; he finished his small ration of oats so greedily, Charles thought the piebald might chew off his fingers.
Next, mostly using their hands, they dug out snow to create their campsite. When they had the snow down to two or three inches, they stomped it to pack it; it was the best floor they were going to get. Of course as soon as they pitched their two-man tent and started a fire outside, the tent floor melted and soaked their blankets.
As the night lowered, Charles heard heavy creakings and poppings — the wagons and their drivers' whips. General Custer went riding past in the storm, Maida and Blucher loping behind.
Custer's cheeks were red as blistered skin.
"... want to see every last one of those damn malingering teamsters in twenty minutes in my ..."
The general vanished behind a tossed-up cloud of snow. Charles had never seen him in such a bad temper, or heard him curse.
Old Bob, who'd kept up pretty well all day, seemed to know it was a night of misery. He stayed close to Charles, nuzzling his canvas leggings and whining.
They unpacked their skillets, unfolded the handles, melted some snow, and boiled salt pork. Several pieces of hardtack, softened by sticking them in a drift, went into the pork grease and fried up nicely. That and coffee provided a passable meal, though Charles was still frozen, and chafed raw by the rubbing of his layers of clothing. He kept reminding himself of why he was here. He pictured each member of the Jackson Trading Company as he last saw him.