Captain Fred Benteen stomped by, muttering, "Goddamn idiot."
"Who?" Charles asked.
"The general. Do you know what he just did?"
"What?" Griffenstein asked, in a tone that said a mass execution wouldn't surprise him.
"Arrested all the teamsters for being so slow. Tomorrow they're forbidden to ride in their wagons. They have to walk. We won't have any wagons after that."
He went away into the falling snow. Old Bob whined, and Charles rubbed his muzzle and fed him a morsel of boiled pork. From that moment, a formless uneasiness about the expedition began to trouble him. It had nothing to do with the presence of Harry Venable.
Because of Charles's reb background, he was something of a curiosity. Young Louis Hamilton, the likable captain in command of A Troop, brought the journalist around after dark. He introduced him as a phonographic reporter representing the New York Herald.
DeBenneville Keim was eager to talk to Charles. Charles didn't reciprocate, but he poured him a tin cup of coffee to be hospitable. Keim drank some, then pulled a small, worn book from his coat. The title was stamped in gold on the spine. After the War.
"I've been reading Whitelaw Reid, Mr. Main. You were in South Carolina when Sumter fell. Tell me what you think of this passage about Sullivan's Island."
He handed Charles the book. Reid was a nationally famous Union correspondent who had written field dispatches under the name "Agate." He'd been one of the first three journalists into Richmond. Charles blinked several times as melting snowflakes dripped water from his eyebrows onto the page and read:
Here, four years ago, the first fortifications of the war were thrown up. Here the dashing young cavaliers, the haughty Southrons who scorned the Yankee scum, rushed madly into the war as into a picnic. Here the boats from Charleston landed every day cases of champagne, pâtés innumberable, casks of claret, thousands of Havana cigars, for the use of the luxurious young Captains and Lieutenants. Here, with feasting, and dancing, and love making, with music improvised from the ball room, and enthusiasm fed to madness by well-ripened old Madeira, the free-handed, free-mannered young men who had ruled "society" at Newport and Saratoga, dashed into revolution as they would into a waltz...
Keim put a red-ruled notebook on his knee. The pages were filled with the squiggles of phonography, a journalist shorthand. "It's a vivid picture. Was that really how it was?"
A vast sadness rose in Charles. He thought of poor Ambrose Pell. "Yes, but not for very long. And it's all gone now. It'll never come back."
He snapped the book shut and thrust it at Keim. Something strange and bleak on his face forestalled any more questions; Keim directed them to Dutch Henry instead. Charles rubbed Old Bob to silence his growling.
Next day the march resumed, the punished teamsters struggling along on foot. The storm abated. The clouds cleared, but that created another difficulty. The glare of sun on the drifted snowfields was unmerciful on the eyes.
They advanced in a southwesterly direction, following the Wolf, which enabled Charles to put his compass away. He rode well in front with several of the Osages, who kept giving him uneasy stares because he sang to himself, in a raspy near-monotone:
"Where'd you learn that?" Dutch Henry inquired.
"The nigras on the sea islands back home sing it. Church song."
"You make it sound like we're goin' to a funeral."
"I just have a funny feeling about this, Henry. A bad feeling."
"Well, you wanted to be here."
"That I did." Charles shrugged; maybe he was a damn fool. But the uneasiness stayed.
The route of march was planned to take them upstream to a point where they could strike southward to the Antelope Hills near the North Canadian. The bed of Wolf Creek soon turned in a more westerly direction. Once again exhausted from breaking through so many high drifts, and half blinded by a sun not warm enough to melt the snow significantly, they staggered into another campsite on bluffs above the creek. Charles heard that one of the teamsters had pulled a pistol on Curly, who kicked his balls, disarmed him single-handed, and ordered him flogged with knotted rope. Griffenstein said Custer had summoned the phonographic reporter and ordered him not to write a word about the punishment if he wanted to continue with the expedition.
"Kind of stupid to offend a reporter that way, don't you think, Charlie?"
"Not if you're watching your ass. Not if you want to run for President someday."
In the morning they bore away from their westerly course and advanced due south. Here and there a few dark patches of woodland showed on the horizon, like charcoal smears on a clean sheet of drawing paper. Some topography was apparent despite the great amount of snow. From the Wolf, the prairie sloped upward slightly to a ridge line or divide. By afternoon they were on the downward side. They encamped that night about a mile north of the Canadian.
Charles and California Joe did a sweep along the river, which was still flowing very rapidly, considerably over its banks. Massive ice chunks came swirling down with the current. They located a ford that looked passable. More sober than Charles had ever seen him, Joe Milner cautiously walked his mule across it. Suddenly he sank six inches.
"Quicksand. Well, they ain't any other place to cross. She'll have to do."
After he struggled out, they returned and reported. Custer seemed satisfied. Dutch Henry said Major Elliott had already left with three troops, and no wagons, to range up the valley of the Canadian in search of Indians. The Corbin brothers and several of the Osages had gone with Elliott. Dutch Henry finished his remarks with a reminder that tomorrow, Thursday, would be Thanksgiving.
Charles didn't care very much. It was a Northern holiday, and no Army cooks would be serving the traditional big dinner in this frozen wasteland.
Quicksand, icy water, dangerous ice chunks that smashed wheel spokes and lamed two horses caused the Canadian crossing to take more than three hours early on Thanksgiving Day. Every trooper, civilian, and Indian was soggy and dispirited when it was over, but they perked up at the sight of the Antelope Hills straight ahead. Reaching these familiar formations proved they hadn't wandered aimlessly.
The five clustered hillocks were anywhere from one hundred fifty to three hundred feet high. Two were conical, three oblong, and from the highest there was a magnificent view of the country: the twisty Canadian behind and, ahead, a vista of snowfields that seemed to roll on and on forever.
Early in the afternoon, shouts signaled the approach of a rider coming in from the direction Elliott's column had taken. Trumpeters summoned the officers and scouts to Custer's marquee, where there was a great state of excitement. Maida and Blucher leaped and yapped. Custer struck each dog lightly with a riding crop, and they made no more noise.
"Repeat it for those who just got here, Jack," Custer said.
"Major Elliott's about twelve miles or so up the north bank," Jack Corbin said. "There's a crossing, and sign aplenty. 'Bout one hundred fifty hostiles passed over, going a little east of south. The sign ain't more than a day old."