Legacies (18 page)

The filly stopped. For a split second, absorbed in his recollections, Alex didn't know why. Then he saw the white columns immediately before him and the wide veranda beyond that circled the mansion.

Dismounting, he dropped the filly's reins and walked back to his father. He was unconscious again. Where the hell was everybody? Hadn't anyone seen them ride in? Then he spotted a slave approaching the house from the stables.

"Boy! Hey, boy!" he shouted and began loosening the rope that held his father in the saddle. "Come here and give me a hand." When the young black man broke into a lazy trot, Alex snapped, "Dammit, I said get over here and help me. Now!" The slow trot turned into a loping run.

Together they dragged his father from the horse and carried him into the house. Alex paid no attention to the lavish furnishings, taking note only of the tuneless plinking of a piano coming from the music room.

"Temple! Aunt Temple!" He halted in the grand foyer dominated by a sweeping staircase to the second floor.

The piano exercises ceased, followed quickly by the sound of running feet. "Alex!" Ten-year-old Sorrel raced toward him, smiling in delight, then faltered, the smile fading. "Uncle Kipp," she uttered in alarm. "What's wrong with Uncle Kipp?"

Just then Temple appeared, and Alex addressed his answer to her. "He's been shot."

"No." As quickly as it came, the expression of shock left her face. "Take him upstairs to my room. Sorrel, go tell Phoebe to bring my medicine, bandages, and some hot water."

"But—"

"Don't argue with me!" Temple flashed. "Just do as you're told and be quick about it." She grabbed her daughter by the shoulders and gave her a push toward the rear of the house, then hurried after Alex and Ike as they carried Kipp up the steps to her second-floor bedroom. After they laid him on the bed, Temple carefully lifted aside his jacket to expose his torn and bloodied shirt. "When did this happen?"

"Two . . . no, three days ago," Alex replied. "I dug the bullet out. But it's started bleeding again."

Kipp moaned when his sister gently pulled the blood-soaked bandage away from the wound, revealing the jagged and fiery red hole. With an effort, Temple steeled herself not to react to the sight, reminding herself of the number of blacks she had treated with injuries more horrible than a bullet wound. Except this was her brother.

"We heard rumors all the Cherokee regiments had pulled out to meet a Union force. What happened?"

"There was a battle . . . over in Arkansas along Telegraph Road near the Butterfield stage stop at Elkhorn Tavern. It went on for three days." Raking a hand through his hair, Alex moved away from the sofa, a drawn, tired look on his face. "We should have won. There were over sixteen thousand of us. Someone said the Union army had less than ten thousand. The first day, I thought we would beat them. We took one of their artillery emplacements. Some of the full-bloods called the guns 'the wagons that shoot.'" He inserted a humorless laugh and gazed at the ceiling. "But we couldn't move the guns to the rear because we didn't have any battery horses. So we burned the wooden carriages. Then they started shelling us, and we had to take cover in the woods."

Phoebe hurried into the bedroom carrying a kettle of hot water, cloth for bandages, and Temple's medicine basket. "Is he hurt bad, Miss Temple?"

Temple shook her head uncertainly. She was aware that both her daughter and Ike stood inside the room, but at the moment her concern was split. "Lije and The Blade, do you know if they're all right?" She glanced at her nephew while Phoebe poured hot water from the kettle into the china washbowl and cooled it with water from the matching pitcher.

"I don't know." Alex avoided her gaze. "The last I heard, Watie and some of his men had taken up a position on the ridge behind the tavern to observe enemy movements. General McCulloch and General McIntosh were both killed on the second day of fighting—General Slack was wounded and had to be taken from the field. There was so much confusion," he said. "We were pinned down in the woods with shells and shot exploding all around us. All the supplies and ammunition were back at Camp Stephens on Little Sugar Creek. Finally, we made our way back there. That's when Father was shot— when we were retreating. Our regiment had scattered. I couldn't find any help. I knew I had to get him out of there. I had to get him home."

When he turned to check on his father, Sorrel gasped loudly. "Alex, there's blood on your neck. You've been hurt!"

In vague surprise, he reached up and felt the side of his neck, wincing slightly when he touched a dark, blood-caked line. Sorrel rushed to his side, but he impatiently dismissed her concern. "It's nothing. Only a crease."

"It needs tending just the same." Not to be deterred, she took his arm and pushed him backward onto the plushly upholstered seat of the bedroom's mahogany armchair. "Now you sit there while I clean it for you."

Temple stole a look at the two of them as Sorrel busied herself with wetting a cloth. Her mothering brought an amused smile to Alex's face.

"I don't think it will require a bandage," Sorrel informed him, assuming a very adultlike air, when she finished washing the wound.

"I don't either." Alex hid a smile.

She sighed and gazed at him proudly. "I'll bet you were very brave, Alex."

"Brave?" That hint of a smile faded, a hardness taking over his expression. "I might feel brave if we had won. We should have. We would have," Alex insisted forcefully, "if the Confederates had kept their promises to us. But the weapons they issued us—old shotguns and muskets, pepperboxes for pistols, flintlocks—that's what most of them were. Half of them wouldn't fire. And the other half, you wondered if they would blow up in your face. We were no match for the Union troops with their modern rifles and revolvers. Some of the full-bloods elected to fight with bows and arrows and tomahawks rather than use the worthless guns they were given, and I don't blame them. Father and I were lucky. We had our own guns. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for the navy revolver I won from Grandfather."

He paced as he talked, his hands moving all the time. Temple was unnerved by the wildness in his eyes, but she recognized that he needed to talk and she let him, keeping her own hands busy applying a poultice and bandage to Kipp's inflamed wound.

"Where is the money they were supposed to pay us? We haven't received it or the uniforms or warm coats they promised either. As for food—when there is any—it isn't fit to feed a field nigger." Alex paused and issued another harsh, humorless laugh. "On our way back to Camp Stephens, we met a wounded soldier from the Missouri brigade. He said when they captured the Union supply camp, they found barrels of flour, hams, oysters, sardines, lobsters, canned fruits, cheese, and coffee. Except for some skinny squirrels I killed, all we had to eat this last week was parched corn." Holding back none of his bitterness and frustration, Alex swung around to face her. "Dammit to hell, we weren't even supposed to be in Arkansas. It states in our treaty that we aren't required to fight outside the borders of the Indian Territory. What the hell were we doing in Arkansas?"

Unexpectedly, the rage seemed to vanish, leaving only a bitterness in his dark eyes when Alex looked at his father. He walked slowly to the bed.

"We never should have made a treaty with the Confederates," Alex muttered. "More and more are saying that. My father said it from the beginning, but nobody would listen to him. They wouldn't be hungry and cold now, or armed with worthless guns. They wouldn't have been beaten at Pea Ridge and forced to run."

Temple finished tying Kipp's bandage, then pulled the quilt over Kipp's shoulders. "Warmth and rest are the two things he needs now." She smoothed the front of her apron. "Get this mess cleared away, Phoebe, and have Caesar get a fire started in the fireplace. When you go downstairs, tell Dulcie to fix Alex something to eat. Ike, you take care of their horses."

"Right away, Miss Temple." With a quick bob of his head, Ike backed out of the bedroom into the second-floor hall.

The minute he was out of sight of his mistress, Ike stopped and thought back on everything Miss Temple's nephew had said about the battle. If Master Blade and Lije had been there, then his father had too. He never went anywhere without Deu. Had he been hurt?

Dee tried to be worried about him. Part of him was. But the rest . . . the rest of him was excited by the news that the Union army had won the battle. They might be marching into the Nation this very minute to free all the slaves. The thought filled him with a kind of exultation. He ran down the stairs, his feet barely touching the steps.

 

A week later word reached Grand View that The Blade, Lije, and Deu had emerged from the battle at Elkhorn Tavern relatively unscathed. By then, Kipp had recovered sufficiently from his wound to rejoin his company. Two weeks later, it was part of the detachment sent to John Ross's home at Park Hill to guard the principal chief, the Nation's governmental documents and records, and its funds.

Ike waited in vain for the Union troops to arrive. Instead of pursuing the retreating rebels, the Union army remained at the battle site. Ike had to face the fact they weren't coming. At least not yet.

 

 

 

11

 

 

Fort Davis

Indian Territory

July 1862

 

When The Blade returned from an officers' briefing, the hard set of his features warned Lije the news was not good. Following the rebel defeat at Pea Ridge in Arkansas, Lije's regiment under Cherokee colonel Stand Watie had become the advance guard along the northern border of the Indian Territory, with orders to gather information on Union troop movements and to raid and harass the enemy whenever and wherever possible. Lije's regiment was now stationed at Fort Davis on the south bank of the Arkansas River—within sight of Fort Gibson, a scant three miles away.

The Blade passed Lije without a look or a word and went straight to his tent. Deu waited for him under the canvas-topped ramada that provided relief from the unstinting glare of the July sun. The Blade took off his hat and shoved it at Deu, then picked up the bucket of drinking water and poured some into a tin pan. He set the bucket back on the ground and bent over the tin pan, scooping up the tepid water in his hands and splashing it over his face and neck.
 

Lije walked over. "What's the situation?"
 

The Blade straightened and took the clean bandanna Deu handed him, his glance running momentarily to Lije. "Yesterday the Union flag was raised over Fort Gibson." He mopped his wet face with the bandanna, blotting the excess water from it. "Today we learned Ross was arrested at Park Hill and immediately released on parole. The entire detachment sent to guard Ross and the government documents deserted en masse to join the Federals.''

Kipp and Alex had been part of that detachment, which meant they were now on the Union's side.

"You expected that would happen," Lije reminded him.

"I expected it," his father admitted with a grim nod. "The Union is now actively recruiting Cherokees. Already, they have one regiment and they are seeking to fill the next. In all, it's expected that some twelve hundred will join them, most of them deserters from our own ranks."

"The number doesn't surprise me," Lije said. "Even though most Cherokees favored the idea of neutrality, many also leaned toward the Union."

"Do you see the irony in all this?" The Blade turned his sharp gaze on Lije, a bitter humor slanting his mouth. "For years they have condemned me for signing the false treaty that brought our people to this land. Yet they urged Ross to sign a treaty with the Confederacy. Now, at the sight of the first Union soldiers, they turn their backs on it and rush to join them. Their treaty was false, and they know it. But knowing it will only make them hate me more—me and all the others of the old Treaty party who remain loyal to the Confederates." He looked to the north at the heat waves shimmering in the distance. "This war is now openly one of old grudges and new."

Once Lije had believed the War Between the States would be over soon. Now he realized the Cherokee Nation was beginning a war that would likely continue long after the American Civil War ended. He thought of Diane with a deepening sense of pain and regret. There was no chance for them now. None at all.

"One thing about it," Lije said, searching for something positive in all this, however twisted it might be, "you won't have Kipp at your back anymore. From now on, you'll be facing him across the battle lines."

"There is something to be said for that," The Blade agreed in a desert-dry voice. "Maybe now I'll lose that twitchy feeling in my spine."

 

The Union troops didn't remain in the area long. Lack of rain and intense summer heat had burned the grass throughout most of the Nation, leaving little forage for their horses. The wagon train with much-needed supplies and provisions had failed to arrive from Baxter Springs. And the commanding officer of the Union expedition had been arrested by the second-ranking officer and charged with either being insane or plotting treason. The combination of these factors prompted the Union army to withdraw from the territory near the end of July, leaving behind a portion of two regiments of the Indian Home Guard to protect the area.

As soon as the Confederates learned the white troops had pulled out, rebel units crossed the Arkansas to test the strength and the resolve of the two Cherokee brigades that remained, brigades composed mainly of soldiers whom the South regarded as turncoats. During the first week of raids and skirmishes, damage was inflicted by both sides.

The big bay horse snorted and shied from Lije's examining touch. "Easy, Jubal. Easy," Lije crooned and threw a quick glance at Deu to make certain he had a snug hold on the bay's head.

After that short flare of resistance, the horse soon settled and stood quietly, putting no weight on its left front leg, its head hanging low, its ears drooping, its eyes dull. Lije watched Deu take an extra wrap on the lead rope, then slid his own hand down the bay's wither toward the shoulder wound, all the while listening to the distinctive grunting breaths of an animal in pain.