Hancock did announce his intention to take the field as soon as the weather improved. One night in the last week of February, he told an assembly of post officers that his soldiers from Leavenworth would be augmented by men from A. J. Smith's Seventh Cavalry. This combined force would strike out from Fort Riley for Indian country.
"Some of you gentlemen will accompany me. Others will remain here. All of you should be clear about the purpose of the expedition, however. I am under orders from General Sherman to overawe the Indians, and meet with the important chiefs to tell them they must stay away from the rail and wagon routes this summer. If their response is defiance, a warlike attitude, then we'll give them war. No insolence will be tolerated. That is now government policy."
In his next letter to Willa, Charles said nothing about government policy. He suspected she'd hear of it soon enough.
"Sit down, Private," Charles said to Potiphar Williams after the exchange of salutes. Suspicious, the ex-cook took the visitor's chair.
"C Company needs a first sergeant. Lieutenant Hook and I have campaigned for you, Captain Barnes agrees, and I'm happy to say Colonel Grierson has accepted our recommendation. You get the job, not only because you can read and write, but because you've proved yourself a good soldier."
Williams's flash of pride was quickly replaced by the old, barely veiled hostility. "Sir, I 'predate the offer, but I can't take it."
"Don't be so damned stiff-necked. I know you don't like me. It makes no difference. In the war I served with plenty of men I didn't like." Williams cleared his throat. Charles blinked. "Wait. Is it just me, or is there something else?"
"It's —" Williams nearly strangled over it. "Seeing."
"What?"
Williams sagged. "My eyes are bad. I can manage fine in shooting at a rifle target. I can read the letter on the guidon when it's a good way off. Close up, though — well, one reason I left the hotel kitchen was because I couldn't see to carve and chop. Cutting carrots or beans, I had a hell of a time." He showed a long, pale knife scar where his thumb and index finger met. Charles had never noticed it.
"There's an easy remedy, Williams. Let the surgeon test you for spectacles."
Another fidgety silence. "Uh, sir — I can't afford 'em. I send most all my pay to my four brothers and sisters in Pittsburgh."
"I'll loan you the money for God's sake, and don't argue."
After long and careful scrutiny of Charles, Williams asked, "The white officers, they really want me for first sergeant?"
"They do."
"You, too?"
"It was unanimous."
Williams glanced away. "You not so bad as I thought. What you did to help Shem Wallis, that was decent. I'd repay a loan soon as I could."
"Fine. One small warning. You'll be nicknamed Star Gazer or Star Eyes. Every bluebel — uh, trooper with glasses is Star Gazer or Star Eyes."
Williams thought about that. "Well, guess it'd be better than the nickname I got." Charles's eyebrow hooked up. "From Potiphar the boys got Piss Pot."
Charles laughed. So did Williams. "That's a definite improvement. Congratulations." Charles put his hand out. "Sergeant."
Williams pursed his lips. He studied the white palm and fingers, then gave a little nod, and shook.
It was March 1, 1867. Dignified and handsome, General Winfield Scott Hancock left Fort Leavenworth.
It was a wet, bitter morning. Charles stood among cheering soldiers, wives, and camp followers watching the departure. The post band played all the old favorites including that most trite yet most affecting of marches, "The Girl I Left Behind Me."
National and divisional and departmental colors passed. Companies of infantry plodded forward. Horse-drawn gun carriages bore the light and dependable twelve-pound mountain howitzers. The towering canvas tops of supply wagons sailed slowly by like schooners.
The column was not all Army blue. Bland-faced Osage and Delaware trackers mixed with a few civilians, including Mr. Hickok, who was in tight buckskin breeches and garish orange Zouave jacket. His twin ivory-handled revolvers were prominently displayed. Hickok's mare, Black Nell, stepped along smartly; her rider saluted the crowd with sweeps of his hat. When he spied Charles, he hailed him cordially. The troopers of C Company looked at Charles as if he'd suddenly acquired a holy aura.
A lurching ambulance carried Mr. Davis, who wrote for Harper's Monthly, and Mr. Henry Stanley, who represented, the New York Herald and other papers. Generals Hancock and Sherman wanted a good press.
The old man squirted spit between his teeth and said to Charles, "Know what's in some of those wagons? Pontoon boats, for God's sake."
"Pontoon boats? What for?"
"Why, fordin' rivers. If Hancock spies some Indians and there's to be a scrape, y'see, the Indians are supposed to wait half the day so's Hancock can lay down his pontoon boats and cross over and fight." Another squirt of spit. "Shows you how much old Superb knows about war on the Plains. It don't bode well, Charlie."'
"I still wish we were going."
"Want some red scalps, do you?"
"Yes."
Ike Barnes studied his lieutenant's face and didn't care for the cold, stark look on it. "You'll get your chance," he said, not hiding his disapproval.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN?—The following mysterious "Take Notice" was found under our door early yesterday morning, having doubtless been slipped there the night previous. Will anyone venture to tell us what it means, if it means anything at all? What is a "Kuklux Klan," and who is this "Grand Cyclops" that issues his mysterious and imperative orders? Can any one give us a light on this subject? Here is the order:
"TAKE NOTICE — The Kuklux Klan will assemble at their usual place of rendezvous, 'The Den,' on Tuesday night next, exactly at the hour of midnight, in costume and bearing the arms of the Klan.
"By order of the Grand Cyclops.
"G. T."
First mention of the Klan in the U. S. press
28
Charles was officer of the day when another recruit arrived. He seemed unremarkable at first, a stout, round-faced black man in his late twenties carrying all his belongings tied up in a bandanna. A black silk handkerchief overflowed the breast pocket of his old frock coat, which had a hole in one elbow. The toe of his left shoe lacked a top.
"Stand at attention while I take some information." Charles believed in breaking recruits in quickly. He examined the man's papers. "Your name's Magee?"
"Yes, sir." The recruit grinned, the widest, sunniest mouthful of teeth Charles had ever seen in a human being. The infectious smile tickled him out of the gloom caused by the morning rain. Life might have robbed the man in some other respects, but those teeth were perfect.
"Wendell Phillips Magee," he added. "Mama named me for —"
"I know," Charles interrupted. "The abolitionist." He consulted the papers again. "You enlisted in Chicago." Illinois must be a dull state. People kept leaving; people like Hickok and a couple of other gun artists named Earp and Masterson whom Floyd Hook had mentioned to him. "What did you do in Chicago, Magee?"
"Saloon porter. Swamped floors. Emptied spittoons." He didn't seem bitter, only factual. "Took my share of hard knocks from customers 'cause I'm a nigger. When my Aunt Flomella died — she was Mama's sister, my only kin — a piece in a newspaper caught my eye."