From wagon to wagon the quartermaster pushed his weary horse through the shoving, elbowing, senseless crowd, hollering out his orders on how he wanted the food dispersed. Seamus had to laugh—for not one of them was listening to any courteous order from their commissary officer now. No longer were they forced to take only what he dispersed among them in the way of the butchered horses, mules, or ponies.
Now they were only eating. Eating everything in sight.
Near the tailgate of the third wagon he saw Charles King shoved side to side in the melee as soldiers hurled boxes and cases and tins of food high into the air, where the crowd lunged and scrambled for it all. Fistfights broke out as men struggled over every morsel.
Then suddenly King dropped into the mud, and when Seamus saw him come up, the lieutenant had three muddy ginger snaps he hurriedly brushed off with his dirty hands, then stuffed right into his mouth. He chewed that dirty treat with no less relish than James Gordon Bennett of the New York Herald would in dining on fine caviar at Delmonico’s.
Every last one of those men were eating as if there were no tomorrow, as if they might not see another meal. After what they had been through, Seamus thought, who could blame them for not giving a damn about that next meal, that next day, that next march and campaign!
“Tobacco!” a soldier announced from a wagon back down the line.
For a moment it appeared all two thousand of the men were going to swamp that single freighter.
“Lordee! We got tobacco at last!”
Already half of the beeves were down in the grass, their throats slit, the precious, thick crimson pouring out in glistening puddles over that lush carpet of green as the men put their knives to work in quickly butchering before they would waddle over to the roaring bonfires laden with great gobs of warm meat spilling across their bloody arms.
Damn, even the worst cut of beefsteak had to taste better than the very best scab-backed, worn-down, bone-rack, and worm-bait horse!
Within minutes some of the men who had snatched eighty-pound sacks of flour had begun mixing up sugar and eggs into batter when they realized they had no skillets. In a heartbeat an enterprising soldier cried out that they could melt the solder joints securing the two halves of their canteens and use them both for small skillets. It was quickly done by hundreds, and soon they brought their roasting pans to a sizzle and were turning flapjacks to a golden brown as men crowded and shoved, snatching the fluffy cakes from the iron spatulas as soon as they were pulled from the coals.
At every fire sat a ring of huge gallon coffeepots, and around them sat an ever bigger ring of expectant men, soldiers and civilians alike waiting for their first cup of real coffee in more long, cold days and nights than any man should have to remember.
Only the surgeons ate sparingly, advising all within hearing distance to do the same—but no one listened. So Clements and Patzki and McGillycuddy just shook their heads, knowing that come morning they would be crushed beneath the weight of a thousand gastric complaints.
And when the hundreds had eaten their fill and were drinking what had to be the best cup of coffee in their lives, the pipes were lit and cigarettes rolled, maybe even an extra quid or two stuffed back into their cheeks, once more given the luxury of wrapping themselves in warm dry blankets for the first time in more than a week while the sun settled beyond the far side of Inyan Kara Mountain.
In a matter of minutes these pitiful, starving wretches reduced to the utter brink of savagery, these crude, uncivilized captives of the wilderness, were soldiers once more. No longer did they stand teetering at the threshold of death’s door. Once again these were men who joked, and laughed, and talked at long last of the future.
For now there was a future.
“Seamus.”
Donegan turned to find Lieutenant Bourke at his shoulder. Taking the beef rib from his greasy lips, he said, “Johnny! Come—share some of our feast with us!”
Patting his stomach, Bourke smiled and replied, “Thanks, but no. I’ve had quite enough for now. I’m come to fetch you. The general would like to talk with you.”
He rose while sucking the juices from his fingers, then licked the ends of his mustache with a flick of his tongue. “What’s Crook want with me now?”
“Now that Grouard and Crawford are both gone on south carrying dispatches and reporters’ stories, you’re the only one he can ask.”
Suspicious, Seamus came to an abrupt halt. “I don’t like the sound of this, Johnny boy. Give me the whole of it, and now.”
“Crook is frightened about all that ammunition we had to abandon off the mules and horses.”
“Yes?”
“He’s sending back a detail of the Fifth Cavalry to retrieve it.”
He nodded warily. “So he figures to send a scout with those troops, eh?”
Crook had devised his plan: Seamus, an officer, and thirty picked troopers on the regiment’s strongest horses. A journey of more than seventy miles in all, round trip. Sure as hell didn’t sound like a Sunday walk in the park—what with the certain likelihood of hundreds of warriors still dogging the army’s backtrail, hoping to pick up all the horses and plunder Three Stars’s soldiers had abandoned.
“When does the old boy want us to leave?” Donegan asked.
“The general inquires to see if you could be ready to go inside an hour.”
Chapter 49
13-15 September 1876
THE INDIANS
End of the Sioux Campaign.
CHICAGO, September 15—The Times’ special correspondent with Terry telegraphs under date of Fort Bufordf mouth of the Yellowstone, the 8th, via Bismarck, the 14th, that the final breaking up of Terry’s command occurred yesterday morning, and all the troops are now en route home, with the exception of two regiments of infantry, which will winter at the mouth of Tongue river … By the 15th all the troops will have been withdrawn from the northern country except the Fifth and Twenty-second infantry, containing 400 men. A dispatch just received from Gen. Sheridan countermands the order to winter a regiment of cavalry on the Yellowstone, which renders winter campaigning impossible, and indefinitely postpones the subjection of the Sioux.
Terry leaves the field, having accomplished no purpose of the expedition, and with one-quarter of his troops killed by bullets or exposure.
As the clouds finally abandoned the sky above the banks of the Belle Fourche that night of the thirteenth, a nearly full moon rose in the southeast beyond Bear Butte.
For the longest time Seamus stood watching it ease itself up off the horizon, yellow as the cream that rose to the surface of buttermilk, and he thought on that most sacred place the hostiles wanted to protect from the white man. How the Lakota and Cheyenne wanted nothing more than to drive these miners and merchants and settlers entirely from the Black Hills.
At headquarters was gathered a happy congregation of citizens—shop owners and merchants of all strata, politicians and the power hungry of every stripe—every last one of them eager to shake hands with General George Crook and those officers who had rescued them from the recent terror and likely annihilation by the Sioux and Cheyenne.
“Four hundred of our citizens have been murdered by the savages since June,” one local wag declared at Crook’s fire that evening. “And at last the government has made up its mind to protect its citizens!”