Legacies (26 page)

A coldness worked along his nerves and tension sharpened his senses, but Lije knew better than to wish for an end to the waiting. Two years of fighting had taught him the waiting would be over soon enough.

Then it came—the sharp report of a musket cracking above the sound of the creek's swift-running water.

His head snapped around as he honed in on the sound. The Union's advance guard hadn't come down the Texas Road; instead they approached the ford from the side.

He snugged the rifle butt to his shoulder and took aim. A clot of smoke blossomed to his left. Lije fired. The enemy was engaged. Instinct and experience took over; there was no time to think, only to act and react.

The clang of ramrods merged with the whine of bullets, the snapping of branches, and the roar of blood pulsing in his head. The splashing of water told him the first of his men had waded into the swollen creek. Lije shifted position to fire again. Sighting down the gun's barrel, he searched the blue ranks for an officer, hoping to slow the skirmishers' charge and gain time, enabling his men to cross the creek safely. A Union major would do nicely. As he centered his sights on one man, another officer moved into his line of fire.

Recognizing the distinctive streaks of silver in the man's hair, Lije stared at the man in shocked disbelief. Kipp. His uncle was part of the advance detachment. Was Alex with them?

Another volley ripped through the leaves, and Lije fired blindly and backed up, reaching the bank and crossing the creek. The Union guard pressed its attack. As he neared the opposite side, rebel guns opened up, giving him cover fire. Fighting the tug of the current, Lije scrambled upward and rolled into a trench. He stayed still long enough to catch his breath and count his men, then went to make his report to The Blade.

"I lost six," he told him. "Two, maybe three dead. The other three missing. Wounded, maybe captured." Dripping water and sweat, Lije sagged back against the slope of the trench and mopped his face with his shirtsleeve, his energy flagging now that the high-charged action was over. "Kipp was with the advance guard."

The Blade looked across the way. "Then he is in front of us."

Wryness tugged at a corner of Lije's mouth. "Has General Cabell arrived with his men? Or Cooper?"

Both Lije and The Blade knew that these forces were needed to capture this supply train. Thus far, not a single supply train had gotten through since May. Without this shipment, Fort Gibson would fall, and the South would once again control the whole of the Indian Territory.

"Not yet. The high water may be delaying them."

Lije nodded, his gaze shifting to Deu who approached them carrying two tin mugs. "I fixed Master Blade some broth," Deu said. "I thought you might like some, too, Master Lije."

"I would." Lije took the cup, the steamy aroma awakening the hunger pangs his morning meal of hardtack and jerky hadn't appeased. He sipped it, the flavorful broth mixing with the powder grime from the cartridges that clung to his lips. He looked to the north side of Cabin Creek—the Union side. "What's their strength?"

"Our scouts identified the Third Indian Brigade, reinforced with units from Gibson, the Second Colorado Infantry, a company of Kansas artillery, and"—The Blade paused, his glance traveling after the departing Deu—"the Kansas First Colored Volunteers."

Lije understood his father's hesitation. Deu's son Ike was with that regiment. So was Shadrach. And Jed Parmelee was one of its officers.

"Damn." The soft curse of regret spilled from him.

Across the way, the Union horse artillery lumbered into position on the north bank, a twelve-pound howitzer supporting lighter cannons.

"Take cover." The needless order traveled through the rebel ranks.

An artillery bombardment began, a mix of solid shot and deadly canister shell. Under cover of the barrage, Union soldiers moved to the bank and took depth soundings of the creek. Once the findings had been obtained, they broke off the artillery assault and pulled back, leaving a heavy guard posted on the north bank.

"They'll make camp for the night and wait for the water level to drop," The Blade guessed.

"Maybe that will give Cabell and Cooper time to get here," Lije said and moved off to check for casualties.

 

The precious supply train withdrew two miles to the rear and set up camp in a section of open prairie along the Texas Road. The main Union force camped well back from Cabin Creek, out of range of the Confederate position.

Outside his tent, Jed Parmelee idly puffed on a cigar and scanned the bivouac area. Campfires dotted the scene, bright flickers of light against the gathering darkness of early evening. Voices murmured in subdued conversations while someone somewhere played a lonely song on a harmonica.

"Would ja be wantin' any more coffee, Major, sun?"

Jed glanced absently at his black striker. "Maybe later. I think I'll take a walk around now, Johnson."

"Yes, suh, Major. I'll keeps it hot fo' ya."

Seeking no company, Jed wandered to the edge of the bivouac and lifted his head to study the glitter of the evening's first stars. Searching out and identifying the constellations had always been a relaxing exercise for him, but tonight his quiet contemplation was interrupted by a whisper of sound, a soft rustle of grass indicating the lightness of a carefully placed foot. Jed pivoted, half-expecting to be challenged by a sentry. But the silhouette of a soldier remained silent and motionless.

"Who's there?" Jed challenged.

"Corporal Gordon," came the lazy reply an instant before the man stepped closer, out of the deep shadows into the range of the camp's reaching light. "Alex Gordon, Major Parmelee. You may not remember me that well, but you know my father, Kipp Gordon. Of course, you know my aunt, Temple Stuart, very well."

Jed stiffened at the slyness that invaded the latter remark, but he couldn't deny the vivid image of the dark and beautiful Temple that leapt instantly to his mind. His gaze narrowed on the man's rather smug grin.

"I remember you, Corporal Gordon." The last time Jed had seen him, Alex had been holding a gun on Lije Stuart. "What are you doing so far from your company's camp, Corporal?"

"Just enjoying a little night air," Alex replied. "I've been teaching some full-bloods the finer points of playing dice— and making some easy money in the process. I decided I'd take a little stroll before I turned in—see how your coloreds are doing after learning they'll make up the main attack force tomorrow. They seem awful quiet to me."

"Do they?" Jed didn't like the tone of his voice, or the hint of jeering contempt that laced it.

"You should have heard my father when he learned our units were to be held in reserve to guard the flanks. He did everything but get down on his knees and beg to be part of the attack." Alex paused. "That's Watie's men over there."

"I know." Jed nodded.

"Which means The Blade is there, too. My father had visions of making my aunt a widow before tomorrow is over. He hates the idea that somebody else might deprive him of the pleasure of killing The Blade." His smile took on a mocking twist. "I think he knows you would like to see The Blade dead, too."

"He is mistaken," Jed snapped.

"Is he?"

"You'd best get back to your company, Corporal."

"Good hunting to you tomorrow, sir." Alex raised his hand in a careless salute. "That is, if your coloreds actually make it across the creek tomorrow."

Jed heard the note of skepticism and clamped his teeth around the cigar, making no reply. Still wearing a smile, Alex turned and walked back into the shadows.

Sighing, Jed turned back to the bivouac, the peace gone from the night. His glance traveled over the black faces of the men gathered around the campfires, observing the tension in them, the hints of apprehension. It was always like this on the eve of battle—this waiting, haunted by the specter of what tomorrow might bring.

But more so for these men, Jed realized. Tomorrow they would go into battle for the first time. Jed felt the tension, all right, but it was familiar to him—just as all the sights, sounds, and smells of a battle were. To be honest, he wasn't sure how these Negro soldiers would react tomorrow. But one thing he did know—he had never commanded men more eager to become soldiers.

There, by one of the campfires, Jed spotted the familiar figure of Will Gordon's former butler, Shadrach. He recalled the surprise he'd felt when he recognized Shadrach among the black recruits. Like so many ex-slaves, he had assumed the surname of his former master.

In his mid-forties, Shadrach had been easily the oldest of the recruits. Uncle Shad, that's what everyone called him— officer and soldier alike. He was only one of four blacks in the entire regiment who could read and write. At night, it was said, Shad held classes in the barracks to teach others.

From the looks of it, he was at it again. Jed approached the campfire where a handful of black soldiers crowded around the slim Shadrach Gordon. Drawing closer, Jed saw that Shadrach wasn't showing the men how to make the letters of their name. He was writing letters for them. Letters home. Sobered by the discovery, Jed halted in the shadows, out of reach of the firelight.

"Tell her I be fine and for her not to be worryin' about me none," the black on Shadrach's right said, then watched closely while Shadrach made the marks on the paper. When Shadrach finished, the man hesitated, then shrugged uncertainly. "I reckon that's all. If n you could just sign it Cuffy, then I'll make my mark under it so's she know it's from me."

Shadrach handed him the pen, and the man called Cuffy drew an
X
on the paper with painstaking care. Someone threw another log on the fire. As the flames shot up greedily, the sudden flare of light fell on Jed. Instantly, two soldiers scrambled to their feet and came rigidly to attention, their hands held in a stiff salute that would have done credit to a West Point cadet.

When the others started to follow suit, Jed stepped into the circle of light, flicked an answering salute, and checked the rest. "As you were, men." They relaxed, but not completely. An enlisted man never relaxed completely in the presence of an officer. "You wouldn't happen to have any coffee left?"

"Yes, suh, Major, sun." In a flash, a tin cup of steaming coffee was offered to him. "It be clean, suh. I ain't drunk out of it."

Jed started to comment on that, then thought better of it, and simply nodded. "Thank you, Private."
 

"You're welcome, suh."

With the cup, he gestured to the paper in Shadrach's hands. "Writing letters home, I see."

"Uncle . . . I mean, Private Gordon here, writ one to m' wife for me," Cuffy admitted. "She can't read, but she's workin' for dis white family. And I figured she could have them read it to her. I . . . I thought the letter might be some comfort to her in case ... well, in case."

"I wrote my daughter Diane earlier this evening," Jed admitted. "I have been meaning ta write for over a week now, but tonight I decided I . . . shouldn't put it off any longer. Of course, Diane says every time she receives a letter from me, she knows there's been a battle somewhere. Every soldier, regardless of rank, thinks of his family on a night like this."

"I reckon that's true," Cuffy smiled almost gratefully.

Jed took a sip of the hot brew. "This is good coffee."

"Uncle Shad made it," someone said.

"I thought as much." He let his gaze seek out Shadrach across the fire.

That man had the gentlest, brightest eyes of any man he'd ever seen. There was a quality in Shadrach's eyes that was almost childlike in its trust. Yet there was intelligence, too. Very definitely intelligence. Right now, Jed suspected Shadrach knew exactly what he was doing here among the men. In his own way, Jed was trying to assure them that all soldiers experienced the same doubts, fears, and apprehensions they were feeling tonight.

"There is nothing a soldier likes better than good coffee," Jed remarked idly.

"That's a fact, suh," someone agreed.

"The fact is—you are good soldiers." He stared at his cup, feeling the silence grow heavy around him. "There are a lot of people who think you don't deserve to wear that blue uniform."

"What do you think, Major Parmelee?" Shadrach asked.

"Tomorrow morning when we start across that creek, it isn't going to matter what I think. Only what you think—what all of you think. You will answer the question yourselves." Unhurriedly, he downed the rest of the coffee, then handed the empty cup back to its owner. "Good luck . . . and good hunting."

After the major left the campfire, the only sound for several minutes was the crackle of flames. Ike stared into them, hunching forward over his upraised knees. "What do you suppose it will be like tomorrow, Uncle Shad?"

"Noisy," came a dry response.

Someone laughed softly. "It'll be that, shore 'nuff."

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," Cuffy spoke up. "Red or white, them rebs ain't gwine to like seein' no blacks with guns. No sirree, tomorrow morning, they ain't gonna show us no mercy. No mercy at all."

"Only a slave runs," a voice said from the darkness. "And I ain't a slave no more. I'm a soldier."

"Hear, hear," Shadrach murmured in quiet agreement.

 

At first light, Lije spotted the First Kansas Colored Volunteers marching in a long column down the dusty Texas Road to the banks of Cabin Creek. There, they fanned out in double-rank formation while behind them battery horses and their outriders galloped, hauling the cannons and caissons to their assigned positions.
 

A moment later the artillery opened up. The ground vibrated with the impact of another solid shot, close this time. Lije rolled over onto his back and looked down the line at the men hugging the wall of the trench. As yet, General Cabell hadn't arrived. Neither had Cooper.

Cradling his rifle across his chest, Lije looked up to the sky to watch for more black balls. Farther down the line, a canister exploded in a sharp puff of smoke above the entrenchments, hurling thousands of metal balls through the air in a downpour of deadly black hail. Lije shuddered, hating the damned canisters.